The Best Man: Losing John Watson
by Emma Lynch
Summary: Set six months after Fly on the Wall . Sherlock hasn't always understood the value of friends and family, considering himself an automaton, a solver of puzzles, a brain without a heart. Certainly, he is blessed, but someone out there wants to show him just how much love and friendship should matter, and the price you might pay if you lose those who are close. Where is John Watson?
1. Chapter 1

"**One runs the risk of weeping a little if one allows himself to be tamed."**

Antoine de Saint-Exupery – The Little Prince

Prologue

**John Watson blogs:**

It is with a heavy heart that I make the following post, and I beg you all to be as understanding as you can be, in spite of the fact you may not understand at all.

Today is my final post as the official blogger of Mr Sherlock Holmes.

I will continue to wish him and his endeavours well, and continue to appreciate him both as a gifted individual, who has helped a great many people, and someone who has been a very good friend.

Unfortunately, today marks the end of my role, and of that friendship, for the foreseeable future.

I feel no compunction to either explain or qualify my actions, since they are only of my concern.

Goodbye, and many thanks for your loyal following.

**(Comments disabled)**

**X**

A week earlier …

"Molly Hooper, do come here – I have a proposal for you!"

Sherlock Holmes stands, dressed in black tailored perfection, but also wearing a distinct bearing of impatience.

His Gucci loafered foot also appears to be tapping as he stands waiting in a sitting room closely resembling a flower shop. Every vase and vase-like receptacle is filled with blooms of different petals, colours and head-swimming scents. Pale apricot gladioli, vanilla roses, deep blue and pink hyacinths and Michaelmas daisies, craning their delicate necks, jostled for space in an environment which must, in point of fact, have been quite an alien one for them.

Doctor Molly Hooper appears at the door, looking flushed, stressed and encumbered of a six month old, wild-haired baby, who is wearing a stripy yellow and black Babygro and a mulish expression. Truthfully, there was absolutely no difference between the mulishness of father and daughter – identical genetic grumpiness.

He looked like a sulking Puck in Titania`s Bower.

_Lovely._

Sherlock raises his left brow at his daughter, as if to ask, `_what ails thee_?` Amazingly, her scarlet cheeks dimple into a winsome smile and Molly is, once again, feeling slightly irked. Which of the two of them had been up half the night with a crying little madam, and which of _those_ two received the rewards? Two very different people, she decided, uncharitably.

"The teething gel is in your left coat pocket."

"Excellent news Sherlock – news which would have come in _extremely handy_ last night."

The treacherous little beast actually cackles with glee as she is passed over to her father.

_Her Immortal Beloved._

"Ah, Viola – red, chapped cheeks, slight rash and temperature, and a degree of irritation – perhaps a dose of Choline salicylate will help?" Sherlock always spoke to his daughter with the expectation she would answer; not minding when she never did.

"Again – " Molly was applying the gel (from her coat pocket) to reluctant gums " – would have been awfully helpful _last night_."

But, looking at them together was so heart-wrenchingly _precious;_ Molly could not bring herself to continue resentfulness. Sherlock knew how to play her, and he was never averse to playing _this_ card time and time again.

_Git_.

"You are both hatefully adorable. _Athena poster_ adorable, even."

Sherlock is showing Viola the appalling traffic along Baker Street. A million new sets of portable traffic lights and dreaded orange cones seemed to have popped up in every direction overnight, resulting in the constant rumble of vehicles, belching out fumes and sporadically blaring horns and drivers yelling out of their windows in the spring morning sunlight. Summer in the city was probably not going to be very enjoyable. Molly found herself fantasising about country lanes, cows in fields and bees buzzing around fecund hedgerows – the sweet meadow smell of an English summer.

"Molly, although you obviously resemble a wondrous dream that has strayed into the daylight, I must ask you to stop thinking so loudly."

"Oh, my thinking is drowning out that traffic noise, is it?"

Sherlock turns and she does detect a tormenting twinkle in his bright blue eyes.

Oh God, I can`t even be arsy – he truly has _ruined_ me.

She gives it up, and smiles. "What were you yelling about earlier, anyway? What kind of proposal are you offering – and don`t try and trick me – I am ready to fight back if I don't like it!"

He turns and gestures towards the flowers with his free hand.

"Why has Kew Gardens come to our sitting room? There was pollen in the porridge this morning, Molly – intolerable. I propose that you remove them, as soon as possible."

"Firstly, you don`t like porridge and have never attempted to make it as long as I have known you; secondly, Mrs Hudson mentioned last night she was hosting the flower arranging group and could she use up here as storage. You said yes."

"Really?"

"You actually said `_hmmm_` and didn't look up from the microscope, but she clearly took it as a _`yes`,_ Sherlock."

He looks around. "I must have deleted it." Then he smiles; the wicked twinkle has returned. "Mycroft should be here in five minutes. I do hope his hay fever has cleared up."

**X**

A third explosive sneeze rents the air in Baker Street, or is it a fourth? Sherlock has his fingers steepled, sitting opposite his older brother, and his Easter Island demeanour gives nothing, as usual, away. He silently pushes a random box of tissues towards Mycroft. Tissues in Baker Street? A minor miracle, and most likely to have been John`s idea. Always thoughtful towards the clients, is Dr Watson.

"Starting a cold, Mycroft? Maybe some _vitamins_ are in order?"

Mycroft gives a weak, and extremely watery smile.

"Solicitous of you, Sherlock, but I don`t doubt for a moment you know of my intolerance to pollen. Are you hosting a wedding party?"

Oddly, Sherlock does not retort, and looks down to his immaculate trousers, picking at a stray piece of imaginary lint. Mycroft Holmes misses absolutely nothing, and tucks away a slightly hectic tint forming on his brother`s cheek into his own mind palace for later reference.

_Interesting._

"So, to the matter in hand, Sherlock – " a slightly marshy sniff affords a sweet humanity to Mycroft that is not completely lost on _his_ brother.

" – you need my help on … not just one, but _two_ matters – hmmm… come then, dazzle me."

Mycroft has eschewed the box of tissues and is actually utilising his silk handkerchief for its original purpose. After a noisy nose blowing, he continues.

"Perhaps you would care to dazzle _me_, Sherlock – and, also, open a window."

Sherlock leans back and considers, forefingers tapping his front teeth.

"I have noted, brother of mine, that these are turbulent times for _men of power_…"

"Go on."

"My homeless network, my markers and my personal observations have furnished me with a copious and unusual number of politicians, Lords of the Realm, government officials and captains of industry being rather regularly scandalised in the tabloids over the past few months. An embarrassing number, Mycroft."

A quizzical eyebrow is all Mycroft offers, as he dabs his nose, delicately.

"Adultery, embezzlement, back-handers – someone has very loose lips high up in Whitehall, and they are sinking some very influential ships. You clearly have a … weakness."

"Clearly."

"What is the common factor here, Mycroft? These men are all powerful, but what else unites them? They live different lives, have varied careers and move in different circles."

A huge sneeze breaks the silence.

"Correct," smirks Sherlock. "They are all members of the Diogenes Club. You have an issue with your plumbing, Mycroft."

A pause, punctuated by snuffling and sniffling.

"The improbable has happened. You have a _leak_."

"There has been an attempted suicide. This is a serious matter which must not involve the police."

"Seiga?"

"Otherwise engaged. In fact, she is needed in another case, Sherlock."

"As I hope, am I, since I have absolutely no interest in the case of the overindulged men in Whitehall."

Mycroft sighs. He is tired, stressed, headachey and – just – _snotty_… Where were Benedict and Viola? They were part of the bargaining levied when meeting with Sherlock to ask a favour. Molly usually ensured some contact… however –

"The second case is probably more to your liking Sherlock, if you believe in fairy tales …"

Sherlock reared up in his chair, much in the manner of Nosferatu, and ended with his elbows on his knees, facing his brother.

"I am going to open the window, dear brother, and you are going to tell me what happened, once upon a time …"

**X**

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**Hello! It`s been FOREVER! (not really, though) Lovely to be back.**

**This story is set approximately six months after the end of `Fly on the Wall` and, of course, includes most of the characters of my previous stories. If you are new to this series, Seiga is Sherlock`s half sister (her story is told in `Emails from Uppsala` and `When Sherlock Met the Other One`. Sherlock has two children, Benedict (5) and Viola (six months) with Molly.**

**Athena was a poster shop we used to have in the UK in the 1980`s and 1990`s. I was thinking of a certain man/baby poster combination ... :)**

**Thank you so much for reading ... I would love to hear your views. **

**Thank you,**

**Emma x**


	2. The Appointment

**One day later …**

Cadogan West leans across the desk to shake the outstretched hand of Dr John H Watson. His craggy features gain a few more creases as he smiles broadly at his brand new partner.

"Welcome to the practice, Watson. Massively glad to have you on board."

John grins, just as broadly back, knowing just how lucky he was to be offered this chance so early on. He truly hadn't seen it coming, but it would give his growing family that bit more security in the coming months.

"And, congratulation on your news – Marion mentioned it. Being a daddy again is quite the chimp`s pyjamas, but those little beggars can be expensive. I should know - we`ve somehow got six of them!"

"Thanks – thank you, Dr West – " John hides a smile, but decides against passing a family planning leaflet across to his new partner in order to shed more light. Cadogan West was the product of an overly privileged background, which had placed more importance on rugger and rowing than senses of humour.

_Chimp`s_ pyjamas?

"Cadogan, for Christ`s sake, man! Marion – " he buzzes the intercom. " – check in the diary and pencil in dinner at The Ivy for Tuesday week … Jane and I are hosting for the Watsons."

Turning to John:

"Start as we mean to go on, Wats – er, John. Tell the wife to get her head out of those medical books for a couple of hours, and we can all get to know each other. No-one has any secrets once the wives have met!"

As he roars out another vermillion cheeked guffaw, John Watson, new partner and soon to be frequenter of expensive restaurants, muses on just how much Jane West might actually enjoy hearing the secrets of Mary Morstan. Perhaps they`d save those for the Surgery Christmas party.

Or, never.

**X**

Six p.m. and John had his elbows on his desk, massaging his temples. It had been a long day, and lunchtime champagne was never a good idea in the workplace. Cadogan West was quite the insistent type. Ah, the dyed in the wool confidence of the British public school boy; that sort of self-assurance carried one through life quite nicely, even if it made one totally oblivious to other people`s opinions.

_Come to think of it, hadn't Sherlock gone to Harrow?_

Five minutes to his last appointment of the day (the whole week, in fact) and he`d nearly got through it all without thinking about Sherlock Holmes. His life had been so busy over the past few weeks, he had hardly seen his friend, or even had time to write up that Copper Beeches case (with one or two omissions, if Mycroft was to have his way). He felt, in part, that his obligations as blogger to the world`s first and only Consulting Detective had lessened, since the videos had become so popular; however, John still enjoyed the traditional reportage of a good old-fashioned written expose of Sherlock`s amazing methods. It still gave him a buzz – a surge of adrenalin – to recount the problem, the solution and possibly, even _the chase. _

And Sherlock loved it. Course he did. He whinged on about John`s grandiose entitlings and descriptive flourishes _("adjectives, John! You lavish them like Smarties in the playground – restraint!"_), but he enjoyed the `_sensationalism_` of his skills a little more than he let on.

John sometimes wondered what his life would have been like without Sherlock in it. Sure, he would still be a Doctor (a partner in a swanky, Mayfair practice, no less) and he would still have wonderful Mary Morstan, pre-school Ninja Sholto, and Baby number two (currently cooking away nicely). He would have friends, a nice place to live, a reasonable car that only broke down on the coldest of winter mornings, and his narky, but loveable sister, Harry. He would still play squash on Thursdays and go to the gym on Mondays and Wednesdays (on a good week!) and, babysitters allowing, he`d still go out to the pictures, or for dinner with Mary, or Mike Stamford, or even hob-nob with his new, wealthy work colleagues.

He`d have a good life.

John sighs as a buzz tells him his last patient has arrived.

But –

He wouldn't be ALIVE.

**X**

"Mr Kemp? Please, take a seat, and let me know how I can help you."

The man was over fifteen stone, at least, but only just over five feet in height. A shaved head and bullish neck gave him a stunted, pugilistic air and contradicted his smart grey jacket and beautifully tailored silk waistcoat. As he looked up, John noticed his skin was milky-white and smooth, like porcelain, and his eyes a flinty-grey, slightly hypoxic in the way they bulged from his head. He did not offer his hand and he did not loosen his glare.

"Doctor Watson," came a thin and reedy voice (_throat problem? Eyes might indicate a thyroid issue … stop it, more data needed_ …), "my visit is perhaps more determined by how I can help _you_."

_Visit? Odd choice of word for a medical consultation_.

John tilted his head, and gave the tight, controlled smile that he used in uncertain and possibly threatening (_oh, come on!)_ situations.

"Help me? What seems to be the problem Mr Kemp?" Hairs were tingling on the back of his neck. _Ridiculous, but true_. God, he`d spent way too much time with –

"Sherlock Holmes," completed Mr Kemp, which made absolutely no sense at all to Dr John Watson, who didn't particularly like people plucking his thoughts out of his head and using them (_as much as he was used to it by now_) as their own.

"Sherlock Holmes is the problem, Dr Watson, and he is the reason I am here."

_God – building empty; exit behind his `patient`; two stories up; phone in jacket pocket on the back of the door…_

"You`re not ill at all, are you?"

And Mr Kemp slowly shakes his head, a lipless and insidious smile playing out across his fish-like mouth, akin to a proclamation.

**X**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thank you to you lovely reviewers, favouriters and followers - you are the chimp`s pyjamas!**

**Arcoiris: Yes, there will be much more on Seiga in this story, and hopefully light will be shed! I also want to thank you for the lovely review you sent me last week regarding Sherlock and Molly in `Fly on the Wall`- it made my day! More of that kind of interaction to come, I hope!**


	3. Into the Woods

**A/N: Seiga Harbargera is a Swedish agent, sometime working for Mycroft and sometimes for other agencies in delicate matters. She is currently dating Gregory Lestrade and is the half sister of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. Her paternity is another (and far more delicate) matter ...**

* * *

><p><strong>Two weeks earlier …<strong>

Mycroft Holmes could very well be believed not to exist out-side of the workplace. For all most people knew of his life, he may as well shimmer, like a hologram in a holding pattern when the office was closed and everyone else had gone home to their loved ones and families; merely awaiting the start of the next working day.

_A permanent civil servant, on an endless loop_.

This, however, was not true.

Despite his hatred of Musical Theatre, Mycroft did (like his brother) love music, and was a member and supporter of the Royal Opera House and Covent Garden. Although not proficient in an instrument himself, Mycroft often took tea on a Sunday morning at the _Royal Horseguard`s Hotel_, enjoying the crisp, white linen table cloths, impeccable service and the enchanting string quartet. Sherlock often used to tease him regarding his love of Chamber music, but, as ever, what Sherlock didn't know couldn't hurt him.

Most of the time.

It then came to pass, that one Sunday morning at the Horseguard`s, Mycroft was sitting, most immaculately, sipping his Darjeeling and trying not to let his eye fall upon the delicate confectionary that glittered its sugary temptation from across the room. Large, green potted palms dispersed between gleaming white and gold pillars, and a slowly rotating fan in the ceiling gave a very`_British Empire_` flavour to his morning beverage, and Mycroft could not have been more content. The string quartet had been playing one of his favourite Schubert pieces – No. 14 in D minor (_Death and the Maiden_) and was now taking a short break, therefore, Mycroft was a little surprised when the violinist suddenly appeared at his shoulder.

_Divorced, two children (one physically handicapped and needing a wheelchair), suffers from anxiety and occasional bouts of depression. Recently returned from a trip to the country. Financially stretched._

"Do excuse me, Mr Holmes – I realise you don`t know me – "

_I know you more than you realise, Madam_.

" – I see you regularly in here, and I know of your brother, from the papers; Doctor Watson`s Blog – "

Mycroft gestures to an empty chair. Her nails are bitten to the quick, except for one – her plucking finger.

She sits.

"My name is Helen Stoner, and I do apologise for disturbing you, but I have a problem – "

_Many problems, Miss Stoner._

It was only his admiration for her undeniable talent as a violinist which stopped Mycroft referring her to the _ask box_ on John Watson`s Blog and allow her to continue.

"I also have another gig, Mr Holmes, on Tuesdays to Thursdays, out in a tea room near Burley, in the New Forest. It`s quite in the middle of the woods, but is a very beautiful spot…"

Mycroft smiles his most charming and insincere smile.

"And please, Miss Stoner, do share with me why my brother, Sherlock, would be interested in your New Forest tea room? Time is ticking, and I do believe you have only seven minutes left before resuming your Schubert."

**X**

Three days later, somewhere on the M27, towards Hampshire …

"I asked for three ways, but I think you can give me four." Sherlock Holmes is driving a Land Rover Discovery, very fast and very assuredly. He wears sunglasses, no jacket and is dying for a cigarette. Seiga Harbargera knows this, since his speed has increased gradually and incrementally to the number of minutes since his last fix.

"Ok, three ways to get away with murder are to … discredit the witness, introduce a new suspect and destroy or bury the evidence, but the fourth..?"

"Get to the jury – throw so much information at them before deliberation, they walk out of that court room with more than an element of doubt."

The speedometer creeps up to seventy five.

"You need to watch the speed limit, Sherlock," notes his sister, "you don`t want points on your licence."

Sherlock pouts.

"Never happen."

"Ah, you are so God-like and immune to British law?" She is so pleased they can tease each other like this now.

"Nope, just don't actually have a licence, in point of fact. Boring."

Oh.

Seiga pretends she doesn't care and decides to change the subject – to the matter in hand – the case.

"So nice for Mycroft to give us the little puzzle to play with."

"Yes, I have indulged him with this, but it is clear he wants his siblings to learn how to share their toys and play nicely together." He turns to her. "We actually have _two_ mothers, I hope you realise."

She laughs a little, shuffling through the papers in the manila envelope passed on by Mycroft that morning.

"I am a little surprised, _att vara ärlig_, that John isn`t coming out to the woods with you today. This seems to be his kind of thing, no?"

Sherlock shrugs, arms locked on the wheel and staring straight ahead.

"Wife, new job, baby on the way – tedious, but it`s a life he has chosen. I can only imagine it has it`s own rewards."

"It sounds a little like _your_ life, little brother," she smiles, slyly peeping from under her lashes. He crinkles his brow, but then shrugs again.

"Obviously, it is different for me, Seiga, since I have Molly Hooper."

Oh, my.

As great a declaration of love as she has ever heard.

**X**

Down in the depths of a large and dark forest there lived three, devoted sisters by the name of Gable. When their hard-working parents died in a car crash, they bequeathed them enough of a king`s ransom to transform their house and out buildings into a smart and successful tea room/book shop and saw mill. The oldest sister, Anna, was the most beautiful, yet she had a cold and unfeeling heart beneath her appealing exterior. She was the first and only sister to marry, and brought her strong and hard-working husband to live in the tea room in the woods and manage the saw mill. James (for that was his name) worked night and day to make a success of the mill, and within three years, both tea room/book shop and mill brought in customers and a further king`s ransom to make the three sisters (and James) very happy indeed.

But this was not to last.

It came to pass that the second sister (who`s name was Rose) one day woke up whilst she iced the rose cream cupcakes. She suddenly realised that she was a passionate and generous woman – as warm-hearted and generous as her elder sister was cold and mean. She woke up and she saw James the Woodcutter and she knew she could love him with more strength and greatness than Anna ever could.

So she did.

The third and youngest sister was a calm, capable and very clever girl called Diana, and whilst she showed no beauty or passion, she was devoted to her sisters and would do all she could to protect them. She could turn her hand to any skill, whether it be in the kitchen of the tea room, the book shop or the wood yard of the saw mill, and she was confident of all the talents she possessed.

Until the day that she wasn`t.

And that was the day that the Great Detective and his sister came to the forest and ended the fairy tale, because nobody lives happily ever after ...

... if they don`t behave themselves.

**X**

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**Seiga`s story can be told in `Emails from Uppsala` and `When Sherlock Met the Other One`.**

**The tale of Sherlock`s driving endeavours can be read in `Driving Miss Demeanours.`**

**Arcoiris: thank you - but I hope you made it to class! :) I have actually met men like Cadogan West - v funny!**

**P.S. I stole this chapter title from a `Buffy` episode (again!)**


	4. Lone Wolf

Seiga glances at the sign above the tea room door and shakes her head.

"I need your idiom or some such, Sherlock; I do not understand the title - `_Woodyard Kipling`s_`? A strange name for a tea room."

"_Woodyard_ - a play on _Rudyard _Kipling – British author of the nineteenth century; indicative of the bookshop. _Woodyard_ also alludes, of course to the saw mill, and I think that the `_Kipling_` is also a cake reference – you need to watch more of our TV adverts now you live here, Seiga. Hmm – " he pauses, " – although I recall Lestrade does have a subscription to Sky Sports which he is rather obsessed by … you have my pity."

**X**

"My husband has been missing for two weeks, Mr Holmes."

Anna Gable is blonde, well-sculpted and as glacial as an Icelandic stream. She serves Sherlock and Seiga with some very excellent coffee and sits alongside her two sisters in the charmingly and impeccably decored tea room of _Woodyard Kipling`s._

"I believe," begins Seiga, hair back to being as black and glossy as a raven`s wing, "your husband has disappeared, and the police have been unable to help."

"He can sometimes take off for a day or two, but this time, no-one has heard from him."

"And yet you expect to?" Sherlock has been watching Rose, the smaller, darker and more voluptuous sister, for a good few minutes. She starts up guiltily from her phone.

"You have been checking your messages since we began this conversation. You either care little for your brother in law, or are wondering if he will contact you. From your red rimmed eyes and recent weight loss, I suspect the latter.

"I – I am worried. For Anna, mostly. Jim wouldn't normally be gone this long – he takes the mill very seriously; works very hard, you see – "

Diana Gable then interjects, cutting off her sister. She is small, like Seiga, and sharp eyed. She is watching Sherlock very carefully, like a mongoose watches a snake.

"Yes, we`re all worried aren't we, Rose? But, Mr Holmes, Miss Harbargera, the police are investigating. Helen Stoner plays here in our own string quartet a couple of days a week, but she didn't really need to involve you at all. Unnecessary fuss."

Sherlock`s eyes snap with a blue fire as he stands and gives her his tight-lipped smile.

"All the same, we are so very keen to take a look around. Miss Harbargera, would you go out to the saw mill with – may I call you Diana? I will see the room and book shop."

He is already walking towards the kitchen as the three sisters sit and watch. Sherlock stops and turns at the door, whilst Seiga waits at the other door.

"Come on now, do keep up," he says.

**X**

Lying across her floral bedspread in the _Burberry B & B_ (`_too many `B`s`, complained Sherlock, petulantly_) Seiga taps her pen against her teeth. "Diana had been fixing the circuitry of the main blade in the mill. She seems very competent, Sherlock."

"Photos," Sherlock doesn't look at her as he stretches out a hand for her phone, nor does she look at him as she passes it – they are quite the well-oiled machine.

"Hmm." Sherlock scrolls through, then enlarges a shot of another set of controls.

"That is the log roller – it moves the logs from the truck to the mill – heavy laden usually, but empty since James disappeared."

"See this – " the button to stop the belt and release the logs has a smear of red across it.

"Not blood," decides Seiga.

"Indeed, but then what?" asks Sherlock, but his sister is already Googling.

"I was being rhetorical, Seiga. I already know."

She looks up – "rhetorical? Oh … " she smiles. "You are used to giving John a chance to see it too, aren't you? To catch up."

And there`s that little crinkle across the brow again and he looks down at the phone.

"I saw this on Diana`s hands, and in the kitchen. It`s cochineal – made from the crushed carapace of a beetle and used for colouring foodstuffs red or pink. Tricky to wash off."

"Diana may have been trying to fix something. She is the mechanical one, yes?"

"Perhaps, but why release a bunch of logs onto the ground instead of the belt into the mill?"

"Error?"

_Always_, thinks Sherlock Holmes.

"I spoke to Joan the cleaner, and Brian, the delivery man," continues Sherlock, looking up at the low, swirly-plastered ceiling and peach satin frilly lampshade.

_Chintzy?_

"Anna is more generous than she appears, giving away unsold cakes to the local care home at the end of each day."

"Clearly, her husband didn't like cake."

"Wrong, he _loved_ cake, especially on his birthday – she just chose not to bring any home."

"You knew it was his birthday?"

"Quite recently. A few cards were still in evidence, but not one from his wife. John would be proud to know how much I realise, these days, the importance of marking of special anniversaries and giving of cards…"

"You send cards?"

"I didn't say that, but other people do. Odd."

"Maybe she is a little like you, Sherlock."

"No. Also, many photographs in her rooms, but none of her and James – not even a wedding picture. Everyone, it seems has a wedding picture of the happy couple."

"John Watson has a wedding picture of the happy couple _and_ their best man." Seiga is, perhaps, enjoying herself a little too much. Focus.

Sherlock affects to ignore her. Truthfully, he is feeling a little strange. When did he last eat something?

"What day is it?"

"Thursday."

Oh dear- a little bit not good.

"Do you have any biscuits?"

"Why?"

"I haven't eaten anything for three days."

Identical blue eyes lock his own with a tiny smudge of recognition.

"I forgot all about eating," says Seiga.

**X**

She wakes as the first shafts of light are coming in through (what else) peach floral curtains that appear quite inadequate for their only task. Sherlock is sitting at the desk, and judging by his apparel and hair, he has almost certainly not been to bed. She looks down at her own clothes and notices neither of them thought to change and utilise nightwear.

Hopeless. She wouldn't mention this to Greg.

_Probably_.

"Rose started going to the gym six months ago. She has lost approximately twelve pounds and taken to visiting the hairdresser in Bambury twice a month for beauty treatments. Joan also mentioned she is very attached to that phone. To the extent that she burnt an entire batch of cakes once when her sister picked up the wrong one – almost hysterical, it would seem. What do you deduce from that, John?"

"_Seiga_, remember, little brother." She smiles at the fraction of surprise registering across his face as he turns. "You maybe need some sleep."

"I really need you to find out who owns that bicycle propped up in the garage. James has one too, but the other is smaller."

Seiga is at the door as Sherlock adds:

"Check the inside sole of their shoes."

"Pedal wear and tear?"

"Well done, John."

And she closes the door, making a note to find him a biscuit – and one for herself too.

**X**

Sherlock checks his watch, then his phone, then registers his irritation.

Seiga has been gone for over an hour, with no communication and he has little idea of where she may be; the woods are deep and dark and at least seven bicycle paths leave from the car park of _Woodyard Kipling`s_. It is getting dark and his nerves are jangling and sparking, making his heart race and skitter unnecessarily.

He glances around again for the cigarette packet and is, once again, disappointed and entirely convinced that his sister has taken them. He just can`t resist another sweep of the room – just in case.

Damn.

Where WAS she? It was so vexatious to have his synapses taking up their valuable brain storming time to have to consider the whereabouts of others. He had the case more or less sorted, but he was becoming increasingly distracted by his missing sister. Irresponsible, that was what it was – why should he have to babysit a trained MI6 agent? She shouldn't be out there, taking unnecessary and possibly hazardous risks, and – well – distracting him!

_John wouldn't have done that. _

John would also have made sure he`d gone to bed for a bit, or eaten something, or told him when his line of questioning was inappropriate (Joan`s tears had also been irritating, but she _was_ wasting time)… he would have been such a superb sounding board for Sherlock`s ideas – Seiga had too many offshoots of her own, which she insisted on chasing up … time was ticking and Sherlock needed a conductor of light, rather than an _eclipser_.

He was impressed with his sister`s talents, but she was clearly more of a lone wolf – an operative who was used to her own methods – nobody`s side-kick, it seemed.

He took out his phone again and scrolled down to the most recent message from John. Over a week ago? That couldn't be right.

`_Busy at moment, maybe catch up soon. Got meeting with Cadogan West tomorrow – hope it`s nothing bad! JHW`_

He also noted a new message, from Molly:

_`Man at dry-cleaners is lying about your suit – he puffs his cheeks out before answering, playing for time! Am consulting detective in training, so you may as well get used to it! (May have lost your suit forever, though). Also, something has come up on John`s Blog which I need to warn you about – I think we all need to talk about it. Hope the case is going well, but we all pine for you, minute by minute – hurry back. Molly x`_

And Sherlock is so diverted by her loveliness, he feels his heart calm and brain fizz less.

Just as he is about to open John`s Blog, the door slams open –

"It seems," pants a dirty, bedraggled and red-cheeked Seiga, "my GPS isn't working so well here amongst the trees – I got a little lost." She absently pulls a twig from her hair. "Many potholes, Sherlock."

"Was an exploration of the local flora particularly necessary, little sister? I merely asked you to ascertain which Gable sister rode it."

Seiga scowls, coming in and finding no warmth from her nicotine-withdrawn, sleep deprived and seriously under-fed brother, is _lite förbannad, _herself...

"I needed to check potential routes – escaping by track is an option, Sherlock, since no vehicle was filmed leaving the car park on the night of the disappearance." She sulkily throws her rucsac onto the terrifically floral counterpane and strides towards the bathroom.

"I`ve solved the case," rejoins Sherlock, suddenly eager to disport his prowess towards her. He wasn't used to lone wolves.

Seiga stops and turns, and a replicated resentful glare is thrown, mirror-like, right back at him.

"I think you will find that is a `_we`_, Sherlock," she comments, quietly, before closing the bathroom door behind her.

**X**

"The gun – give it to me, Diana."

"I know how to use it." Little beads of sweat glisten on her upper lip and her knuckles are white and –

"You are shaking," announces Sherlock, as the youngest Gable sister holds the cold muzzle of a converted 9mm Glock hand gun to the head of his own flesh and blood.

He is as calm as death and she sees no fear in his cold, glacial eyes.

"I used it on James – " adds Diana, and a shuddering sob erupts from Rose, being held by the emotionless Anna, who stares at the scene like she is watching a relatively mundane TV show.

"No you didn't. Give that to me," he locks eyes with Seiga, who`s hand creeps slowly around the back of her captor. In a second, she will be disarmed and she won`t even know how it happened, but Sherlock wants a moment longer, and his eyes flash, telling her to hesitate.

"You killed your brother in law, but it was an accident. The logger had jammed, you were fixing the controls as he came out to speak to you. He was going to leave and take Rose with him. They had begun an affair and he was to leave the cold-hearted wife who didn't celebrate his birthday, didn't have a single picture of him in the house and never took him cake home in the evening…"

"We loved each other, we were going to move far away!" Rose tried to struggle away from her sister, but there was a vice like grip holding her down.

"We couldn't break up our family," came Anna`s calm, cool voice, like a mist rolling over ice.

"He could go, but he couldn't take my sister with him," rejoins Diana Gable (so calm) _just_ as Sherlock`s eyes look up at Seiga, who instantly and effectively twists around, taking the gun and flattening Diana to the floor of the tea room kitchen.

"And _you_ can`t take _mine_," murmurs Sherlock Holmes, as he kicks away the gun and starts texting rapidly.

"Especially with the safety catch still on," adds Seiga.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **

**Arcoiris - yes, he is rather cocksure of her affections isn't he? Let us wait and see! Thank you for the words of encouragement :)**

**_lite förbannad_ - a little bit pissed off**

**Well done Sherlock - but are you not missing something (or someone?)**

**`Mr Kipling`s` are a brand of cakes in the UK**


	5. Family

The local constabulary had the gruesome task of removing the log pile from the top of the body of James, husband of Anna and lover of Rose. Anna had known about the affair from the very beginning, and truthfully cared very little, until the day she discovered her sister was planning to leave. The three Gable sisters had stayed so close their entire lives, particularly after the death of their parents, and after Diana had argued with (and accidentally crushed) James beneath the wood pile, she and Anna had conjured up a story of betrayal and desertion.

It seemed to fit everyone`s needs. Certainly, Rose was upset, but her protective siblings felt sure she would recover, and their perfect little unit would carry on –

Happily ever after.

As they drove away, Sherlock looked at the retreating idyll in the woods, shrinking speedily in his rear view mirror.

"Rose learnt to ride the bicycle to meet up for secret trysts in the woods with James."

"You were right about her shoes," offered Seiga, generously. She is looking closely at her brother. The trip had been illuminating, in quite a few ways.

Sherlock is considering something, but he quirks a tiny smile at her praise. She isn't quite as forthcoming with it as – _other people_ might have been.

"One sister was just a little bit _too cold_, one a little too _heated_ and impassioned, and the third – ? "

Seiga looks at him, uncomprehendingly.

" – the third sister, Diana, was calm, cool and measured – giving nothing away. She was _just right_ in her outward demeanour."

Nothing from the passenger seat.

"Seiga, you must know of a _fairy tale_ that reflects this case – ?"

And Sherlock suddenly finds himself in the very strange and unique position of being the only person interested in giving a `_fanciful_` and `_sensationalist_` title to his latest case –

_`The Case of the Three Gables and the Goldilocks Effect`_

And something inside him shifts, alters and re-arranges itself into a more obvious and tangible form, and a slightly panicked and unwelcome set of emotions permeate his sinews, blood and bones …

"I think you have missed working with your family on this case, Sherlock."

"You are my family, obviously." His mouth says the words but his brain knows he is playing for time.

Seiga leans back in her seat and closes her eyes – she intends to sleep the rest of the way home, but she wants to say something first.

"I have never mentioned what my father and I spoke of, when you left me in that tunnel in Newcastle … "

Professor Moriarty – Seiga`s real father, and the one she has rejected, since she chose the _side of the Angels_. Sherlock is so shocked at the sudden mention of Jim Moriarty`s brother that a tiny noise forms, unbidden, from his mouth.

_Oh._

"I never want to speak of this again, Sherlock, though, _gudarna vet_, Mycroft has tried to persuade me – but I need to say this. My – _father,_ he said that blood is not always the indicator of family – "

She pauses, and he feels her almost choking on the words, like they are limpets lining her throat.

"Families can leave each other, and, as we have seen, they can cling so much as to be a dangerous thing. My father had the strangest relationship with Jim, and with me – all so wrong and far, far too late."

She breathes hard, gathering an effort from deep within.

"My father knows and envies your family because they save you, Sherlock. Not just Mycroft, or Miriam, or Vernet, but Molly, the children, and most of all – "

Sherlock grips the wheel so tight as the amorphous cloud recedes and the image in his head is as strong and and loyal as a soldier, a flatmate, a right hand man – a friend ...

John.

"Check my phone – I want you to read me the last post written on John`s Blog," says Sherlock Holmes quietly, knowing already that he is not going to like it one little bit.

**X**

Philip Anderson is late, and as fearful as he is for not writing up a pathology report properly (one that _may, or may not_ be viewed by Sherlock Holmes), he is even more fearful of eliciting the wrath of Sally Donovan.

Sliding into the canteen chair, he affects a breeziness and cheery exterior that bears no relationship to his inner churning. He notices her half eaten sandwich, three quarters consumed coffee and arctic scowl.

"So sorry, paperwork … you`ve, er, been here a little while …?"

Dark eyes roll resentfully upwards.

"Glad to see some useful skills are rubbing off on you – "

" – from - ?"

" – Sherlock Holmes."

Ah.

He scratches at the side of his nose. Maybe it wasn't a good time to mention that her new shoes seemed to be rubbing a pink blister on her heel and would probably be contributing to her bad temper… he smiles instead.

Sally gives up her annoyance, seeing as they are giving this dating thing another go (probably a lot easier since he`d left his wife and was being marginally less of an idiot these days) and picks up the remains of her sandwich, biting into a mixture optimistically boasting of `lime and chilli chicken wrap` deli-ness.

"Actually, I`ve had a sod of a morning myself, so I`m probably taking it out on you – "

The words `_as usual_` hung, unspoken in the air.

"Had to question a load of witnesses on the Trevor Bennett killing; quite a few linked into his money laundering warehouse, but not a peep of involvement in his murder. Can`t pin a thing on anyone – they`re either innocent as the day is long, or shit-scared."

"Greg got anything?"

She chews, considering.

"Sherlock Holmes has been running around the New Forest, finding lost husbands, so he`s a bit stumped with this one." Sally looks thoughtfully at her paramour, before placing the sandwich down and picking up her swiftly cooling beverage and swilling its remains around in the bottom of her cup.

"Actually, talking of the _Newly Reformed Sociopath_, I had a bit of an embarrassing situation this morning with one of my witnesses – "

Anderson`s ears prick up. Whilst Sherlock wasn't precisely a friend, he was very fond of Molly and Ben, and – well, all of them, really.

"Yeah," she continues. "Turns out, she`s been implicated with this warehouse thing – evidence is there that she`s been working for Bennett, but there could be another link, putting her at the murder scene."

"_Could be_? There`s either evidence of her being there, or there isn't."

"Yeah, that`s what makes it so embarrassing…" Sally shuffles in her seat. "There was a letter, with her name on it and some CCTV time-dated footage – we had her on film and everything, but now it`s kind of – gone."

"Gone? You`ve lost some evidence?"

She rounds on him, defensively.

"Well, not _me_, personally, idiot, but someone has mislaid it. It was checked in, never checked out, but gone all the same. Go figure."

Anderson shakes his head. Sherlock had always said the Evidence Room at NSY had the security of a _Wendy House_.

"So this witness, she`s clear?"

"Only until we find it, and _we will_ find it, Philip." He knows better than to argue.

What did all this have to do with Sherlock, though? Oh, she was saving the best till last, obviously.

"Thing is, I don`t know if John or Sherlock knows about it, and it sure ain`t my place to tell `em."

He waits.

"The witness," she continues, "her name is Harriet – Harriet Watson."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Seiga was confronted by her father, and learnt the nasty truth about her parentage in `When Sherlock Met the Other One`.**

**Arcoiris: Oh, I love the idea of breadcrumb-dropping John - like Hansel and Gretel with clues for Sherlock instead of crumbs :)**


	6. The Currency of Friendship

**I don't know your thoughts these days  
>We're strangers in an empty space<br>I don't understand your heart  
>It's easier to be apart.<strong>

**(Keane – We might as well be strangers)**

* * *

><p>Molly sees Mary Watson enter her lab out of the corner of her eye and, leaving her notes, steps towards the coffee machine. Mary wears the white coat and stethoscope of a second year medical student and the strained look of a woman who was unsure of her welcome. Being with Sherlock had encouraged Molly to notice things – a little bit at least – and she saw the dark circles, 3cm roots and poorly plucked eyebrows belonging to someone who was not sleeping and had other things on her mind besides maintaining her beauty regime.<p>

"Still drinking coffee, lovely?"

Molly had meant her greeting and welcoming smile to cheer her friend, but she looked on, horrified, as Mary`s lip trembled and her face crumpled into tears. Sinking onto the nearest stool, Mary grasped at her short blonde hair with two fists and bent her head down, as if to hide the shame.

"I can cope with anything except your kindness, Molly."

Her tears were hot, silent and leaked out from behind the hands over her face; borne of repression and fortitude which could no longer be contained. Mary did not cry. End of. Period. Full stop. She shed regret like a winter coat on the first day of spring; she did not falter; she did not dwell.

She could not afford to do these things and exist in her present world.

And yet, here she was; being held tight in the soft embrace of Molly Hooper, who only wished her solicitude could be absorbed by osmosis, rather than words, since she knew the words that were coming, but not how to parse them.

Eventually the crying slows, then ceases, and Mary is red eyed, hollow cheeked and facing Molly across the smooth steel of the laboratory. A clock ticks above their heads.

"I made a mess of your lovely white coat and your lab." Tissues were strewn across the pristine surface and littered around their feet.

"Should have seen the mess I made when I gave birth to Viola in here," counters Molly, and a watery smile leeches through. Result.

The clock ticks on.

"Hormones not helping really, but I just don't believe how much I am missing you all. This wasn't anything I wanted to happen and, Molly, I _would_ torture John if I thought it would help, but he`s just closed down and immersed himself in the job, me, Sholto and everything that … isn`t Sherlock." She falters again, and Molly feels her own eyes pricking. Two weeks on from John`s announcement and there had been no contact of any kind between any of them. Mary had been alone for so long, she had embraced family and company with a joyous need she didn't know she had, and now it was fractured, disjointed, spoilt.

"I would feel," whispered Mary Watson, her words emerging, raw and exposed into the daylight, "I would feel better if I just understood _why._ John was so open that his emotions would play across his face like a cine film and I would just decide how much I should tell him of what I already knew about his feelings. He didn't have a reason, Moll, to hide his heart away, but now there`s a blankness – a pit of dark where I can`t see him anymore. That hurts, more than anything. And he`s having the nightmares again."

Hormones or no, but Molly Hooper knows her own throat is aching with the sadness of knowing that something is lost.

**X**

Mycroft is very pleased I managed to resolve Miss Helen Stoner`s peace of mind when I solved _The Case of the Goldilocks_ – well, that case in the New Forest. Those three Gables. He does so love to wrap up a request or a problem in a neat, tidy parcel, and in place of a wax seal, a seal of approval from that person.

Mycroft loves to be _owed_. Particularly by me.

I leave Seiga at the Bakerloo line (her request) and park the Land Rover on a meter I have no intention of putting any money into. And why should I? The vehicle is registered to Mycroft`s department and I think I have given him enough this day. Let him pay the piper.

As I walk slowly towards 221B, my mind palace shifts a gear to consider my latest problem. It is a problem that will gnaw at me fairly regularly over the next few weeks…

A Study in John Watson:

Truth be told, I do have to keep a close watch on John Watson. I take my eye off him for a second, and he insists on getting kidnapped. A brief reverie; a moment of time to reflect on the chemistry of brick dust, coagulants, or the effect of global warming (_Benedict`s latest school project – good Lord, they are five years old and ill-equipped to form a quango to solve the problems of the planet!)_ and he`s gone – wearing a vest full of Semtex; swapping barbs with a dominatrix, or waking up in a bonfire.

Predictable and terrible.

Also, I detest John seeing my violence. Ridiculous I know, but to him, I am a brain, an appendix, a machine that machinates without the need for a crunching of bone or slicing of flesh. He knows of my martial arts training and my fencing capabilities, but I care nothing to exhibit the evidence that I punch, I stab, I shoot, I kill.

He has made me into quite the hero. His Blog succeeds in both repelling and enticing me in the same moment and I honestly find it extremely difficult to resist.

_That was brilliant. Fantastic. Amazing. _

He is both fascinated and infatuated with my – _abilities._ He has fought his war and he needs me to fight mine so that he can make sense of this brave new world. I feel that I disappoint John when I only focus on the science rather than the humanity. Could I distill that blood sample to separate the adrenal surges the murderer felt when he reached for the knife? He knows I am (in reality) a man, but he finds himself intrigued by my love of experimentation and my insatiable and gnawing curiosity. (_Why can`t I have those fingernails, John?_ _They are still attached to the victim and his mother is standing to my left…). _An inconvenient moral compass, but a compass all the same (and I need the order it provides).

John is my window to the world and my understanding of the people in it. Before John (or my beautiful Molly Hooper), I saw a child fall in the park, and I regretted its poor judgement as to its capabilities and choices of playthings. I now understand that a child may make a decision based on its primal urges rather than an effective health and safety check and chemical understanding of its synapses.

Useful.

John doesn't mind my fiddling and twitching. If I am thinking, I need to play my violin and execute a few arpeggios before I can calm the racing thoughts and corral them into a meaningful conglomeration. If I am overly agitated, Molly takes away my Stradivarius and soothes me into submission with her witchcraft. Whilst this is effective and utterly enthralling in its entirety, I know that John would prefer to listen, with closed eyes, and then tell me:

_Brilliant. _

_Fantastic._

_Amazing._

Oh, I miss that.

And I miss him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**Yes, Sherlock, so what are you going to do about it?**

**Arcoiris: I totally agree about John (hence this story) - there is a connection between him and Sherlock which is a forever deal, whatever else comes their way. Go, Bromance! :)**

**P.S. Sholto and Ben? Am all over it ... :)**


	7. Collateral Damage

Sherlock storms into the crime scene, coat swirling and eyes flashing. Three bodies lie across a warehouse floor, one holding a gun. They are identical triplet brothers by the name of Garrideb, and all have socks and shoes missing.

Sherlock looks, peers, examines, sniffs, feels (tastes!) and observes the scene to within an inch of its life (including close examination of several dead pigeons by a smashed window), before declaring:

"Accident."

"What?" Lestrade is checking through his notebook. "Murder, surely?"

"Came in through the Brooker Street entrance to shoot pigeons in here. There`s a burst water main, so they removed footwear to wade through – check back there for it. _Garrideb A_ had the gun, it jammed, then misfired, killing _Garrideb B_, who attempted to throw it down to help his brother, but it caught on his sweater, causing another misfire which shot and killed him."

Lestrade, used as he was to this man, just stared.

"What about the third dead man? He wasn't shot at all."

"Agreed. All three appear to have suffered from a congenital heart problem which caused death for A and B from wounds not usually fatal. _Garrideb C_ suffered a heart attack from shock at witnessing the distressing turn of events."

Lestrade shakes his head. That was quick, even for Sherlock.

"And you`re quite sure?"

"Close medical examination obviously needs to be made, and followed up in autopsy. I am as certain as I ever am – even without that."

Greg is looking around, expectantly into the darkness.

"John not here to back you up?"

But Sherlock Holmes has already swooped away in a swish of coat and turn of head.

"No," his voice is as dead and brittle as the leaves blowing around the warehouse floor, "no back up, and I suggest, Lestrade – " he turns back and Greg sees something in his eyes he`s unable to define – " that you have a little read of John`s last post. Good night."

And he is gone.

**X**

Gracious, _The Science of Deduction Blog_ had been so neglected of late that Sherlock was almost expectant of cobwebs hanging from its pages (dust?) as he scrolled down. Fanciful, perhaps, but it seemed he was becoming more fanciful by the day. John`s absence was growing more galling and – inconvenient – by the day too. Perhaps these two instances could be married up, pitching one variable against the other? Hmm. Perhaps not. Sherlock sighed. He also blamed the _considerable_ witchcraft of Molly Hooper for his growing fanciful nature; cold, hard, logical data collation was often polluted and diluted by her … _thrall_. The word for it was clearly `thrall`. He was no longer master of his thoughts … just look how they were wandering now!

His comments box was full – that was going to take some tedious trawling through which John would have taken great delight in doing. Damn.

Sherlock continued to scroll through – boring, dull, transparent, oh – ridiculous! Dull, dull, fake, generic – oh, not another de-coding challenge? When will people stop thinking these would be a challenge? `_An Original Cypher_` - when was that _ever_ true? … oh, what was this? A message from someone he happened to know…

_Sherlock, I am posting on here, since I thought you might just throw away my letter or delete my email, and I wanted you answer me quite urgently. I know we haven`t always seen eye to eye and you`ve had your views about me (just as I`ve had my own opinions about you). I`ve not always thought you`ve been fair to John; he`s my brother, and I do love him (even though I`ve not always shown it) and he`s got me through some fairly rough patches in my life. You came along – swanned in – and he was all over you and your cases, your needs and wants, and never even minded the way you would often treat him. You are selfish, Sherlock. You take and take, but don't always think that you are dealing with a human being, who hero-worships you and puts you on some kind of pedestal. You are no kind of god, Sherlock Holmes; you are a human being, just like the rest of us, and prone to making mistakes, just like the rest of us. John was in awe of you and your talents and would have done anything for you, so I just want to know – what the hell have you done to make him break off all contact and desert you? Are you out there, asking him why? Are you beating down his door to beg for his forgiveness? No, of course you aren`t, since you are the poster boy for arrogance and selfishness. You should be begging him, Sherlock, because he is a good man and would make ten of you. Whatever you have done, it must be bad, really bad, and I hope you will be man enough to make it right – Harry_

And, although the entire epistle simply reeked of the bottle, Sherlock still felt like he`d been punched in the gut and the air knocked from his lungs by its finish.

**X**

"I am sorry, Mycroft, but he`s been called out, to Scotland Yard. Greg`s a bit stuck again, dear. Would you like a cup of tea, since you`ve come all this way for nothing?"

Indeed. A _nothing_ which Sherlock assured him would be a `_something_` when he had texted just fifteen minutes earlier and agreed a meeting.

"Thank you, no, Mrs Hudson. Duty calls."

"Well, I _have_ just taken one of my ginger cakes out of the oven, too … "

"Well, it might be sensible to give him five minutes – "

"I`ve also got some of that special ginger and lime cream to go with it."

"Or perhaps ten."

Five minutes later …

"I just don't understand it, I really don`t. We`ve not seen him for over two weeks now, and no-one has any idea why. Sherlock pretends he doesn't care, and there is nothing he can do about it, but he _does_ care, Mycroft. You know him. You`re the same – you boys just don't like showing your feelings. Odd, but there you are … _your poor mother_ is all I ever think…"

"You know what I say about _caring_, Mrs Hudson." Mycroft does absolutely nothing to resist the second dollop of ginger and lime cream landing on his cake.

" – and your poor father too!" She adds, with an extra helping of exasperation.

**X**

Skylab (221C) – after supper …

There is a very special kind of adorableness that comes, sometimes unexpectedly, when you realise that your child absolutely is a part of you. Such a moment comes when Sherlock Holmes sits at his bench in his pristine laboratory with his five year old son.

They both wear lab coats (brown) and goggles (_unnecessary, but Molly insists an example is set – which way round that goes is a little unclear_) which transect their dark, curly hair and lie, translucent, over their identical blue/green eyes. Benedict focuses tightly on the calipers he holds, ensuring they remain tightly gripping of a large matchbox sized block of ice. Within the ice is contained a single flower head, not dissimilar to one of Mrs Hudson`s Michaelmas daisies. Sherlock has a similar block of ice, but containing a tulip head.

They both look extremely serious.

"Global warming, Benedict," says Sherlock, "apparently a very serious turn of events."

"It is very serious, Daddy. The ice caps are melting because of – CF…C – gases leaking from hairspray and the petrol fumes."

"Indeed, and very well done on your knowledge of gases. This is why we are here today, Ben, since I for one do not wish to see penguins paddling down Baker Street."

Benedict, however, looks a little delighted at this mental image, until his father gives some taciturn regard his way.

"The natural world order cannot be altered to amuse us, I`m afraid. We are, now, going to expand your understanding of fusion in an attempt to gain deeper insight into the importance of changing states."

Ben stares at him, half awe, half fear.

Sherlock smiles (_the lab coat/goggles combo are not entirely lost on him_).

"We`re going to melt stuff," he says.

"When a solid is changed into a liquid, it is known as a `_phase change_`. The heat is absorbed or emitted without changing the temperature of the material, therefore, when ice melts, it is at a constant temperature of 0 degrees celsius."

Ben nods, vigorously, so Sherlock continues.

"We are going to work out `_the heat of fusion_` by calculating how much energy is used to change this solid ice into its liquid counterpart – "

"Water!"

"Indeed. Each block weighs 25g. Do you remember how many calories of heat are needed to melt 1g of ice?"

"Er… is it eighty calories?"

"Telling, or asking, Benedict?"

"Er … telling?"

"Correct, as it happens. Well done. You mother and I continue to uphold the highest hopes for your knowledge base… now, we need to isolate these blocks into two styrofoam boxes and add warm water … would you like to use distilled, or salt water for your block?"

Ben silently points to the salt water and eyes his father closely. Something hangs in the air; an unspoken miasma of burgeoning words which are waiting, poised and ready to be launched…

"Daddy – "

"Mmm?"

The clatter of hard surfaces and the loquacious glug of pouring waters fills the silence momentarily, then –

"Daddy, why doesn't Sholto come over to play anymore? Is it because I asked him to give back my fire engine? He can keep it if he wants to – I don't really need it. Could you tell him, daddy? Could you tell him I don`t need it anymore and he can have it?"

And Sherlock stops pouring, and blinks into the middle distance a few times. He puts down his beaker and takes a breath.

No.

This simply wouldn't do.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Ben for future Nobel science award!**

** Harry - ooh, harsh! (jealous, moi?)**

**Arcoiris: Yes, Mary is extra weepy at the moment; don't worry - she soon toughens up...**


	8. Breakthrough

Three days later, and Sherlock Holmes smokes a furtive cigarette in the alleyway behind 221 Baker Street. The orange glow from its ember highlights the hollows of his face and the crease across his brow.

"Nothing?" Exhaling into the night air, Sherlock searches the face of Wiggins as if to glean further truths, and the leader of his homeless network feels the stab of mistrust enter their unique relationship.

"Mr `olmes, I ain`t never told you a lie – "

Sherlock cocks a sardonic eyebrow.

" – for ages! I wouldn't lie about Dr Watson, anyways. I like `im. Like I says, word on the street is that he goes to work, goes `ome, goes to the pub with some doctor blokes, goes to Tesco on Saturdays – "

Sherlock waves his words away with an impatient hand. It actually pains him to listen to the mundanity that his friend has been reduced to. Tescos? The pub? What about the man who had never left the battlefield? Where was his battlefield now?

"Did you, at least, get the list of patients for the three days prior to John`s last Blog posting?"

Wiggins digs into his filthy shell suit pocket and pulls out a marginally less filthy envelope.

"Yeah, I got `em, and most recent Pentonville releases – like you asked, but I dunno if this kinda caper is much use anyways…"

Sherlock is rootling out the list and attempting to read it in the pale tungsten glow of the street lamp.

"Thank you for your input, Wiggins – "

"… maybees there ain`t no threats or worries stoppin` him – "

"I`ll be in touch."

" – maybees, he just don`t wanna play anymore, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, Wiggins."

**X**

This is a bad one. Really bad.

Mary stands at the end of her marital bed, watching her husband in the midst of the hell that was his subconscious. To wake or not to wake, that was the question. As a second year med student, she knew there were dangers to be had if a person was awoken in the wrong way from this kind of night terror – for night terror was what it was; no mere bad dream wrung the sweat from the skin, and caused the tortured writhings or hot, dark mumbings of a man in pain – a man in turmoil.

Mary reached out a trembling hand, then withdrew – it would be too much, perhaps.

"Mggaaah…!" John`s words were incoherent, but his intonations was unmistakable – _fear, escape, pain_.

She made a decision and slowly edged onto her own side of the bed, pulling back the quilt and gently distributing her weight as lightly and gradually as she could. Mary lay down beside her twisting husband –

"Gaahh…nngggh.."

– and got as close as she could, her mouth as close to his ear as possible. She let her breath catch the back of his neck and her warmth insinuate itself into his consciousness. Only then, did Mary Watson let her hand lightly touch his pyjama`d leg and slowly, lightly, travel up the side of his undulating form until she found his upper arm and tightened her hold.

"John," her voice a gentle whisper, like thistledown on a breeze.

"John, it`s Mary, and you are safe, so safe – "

"Mggsshhh… fsssh – fssh mmnn! Fssh mann!"

_Fish_ man?

"Safe. You are going to be fine," her words becoming stronger and more insistent. Firm and believable. "I am here and you have to wake up – you must wake up because this is just a dream – "

She has his arm tightly gripped and her body moulding around his, giving him structure and a feeling of strength, of safety.

"Sggssshhhkk!"

"You have to wake up now John," louder.

"Ssshcer – shccchelerrr – "

"John! Wake up _now!_"

John twists, almost from her grasp and sits bolt upright, his navy eyes suddenly flying open in wide, blind terror.

"_Sherlock_!" he cries.

**X**

For a prestigious address, the security should certainly have been more reliable, reflected Sherlock Holmes as he gently levered the (unalarmed) basement window from its surround, and shone in the powerfully focused beam of his Surefire LED torch.

One, elegantly placed foot and length of leg was followed by a second, and much in the way of a cat (or cat burglar), Sherlock eased his limber frame into the surprisingly accommodating window frame of the Mayfair General Practice of Dr John H Watson. Down onto a strategically placed box (lucky?), then another (very lucky) and noiselessly onto the floor of the tiny stockroom. He had studied the plans the evening before (blueprints were just available at every verse end these days) and had a pretty firm idea where the CCTV equipment was housed. A list of names was one thing, but a visual of John`s clients that week would prove doubly useful. Whatever Wiggins, or anyone else theorised was complete tosh – John Watson (his John Watson) would not drop their friendship on a sudden whim. Something – someone – had got to him, and it was highly likely to have been someone masquerading as a patient. A simple, elegant and anonymous method of blackmail – just not anonymous enough.

His thoughts ricocheted around his brain (as they had been doing since this business had begun) as Sherlock bent down to pick up his toolkit, thrown in before himself. He could only sigh inwardly, with a sudden, familiar lurch of déjà vu, as a cold nuzzle pushed against his head, and a soft voice ruptured the darkness.

"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step – "

"Oh no, you won`t, Mrs Watson … "

And he puts his hands slowly behind his head, elbows aloft, and stands slowly – very slowly, for he has been here before, and this is someone who would not make threats with the safety catch on.

"Turn around, take your time – "

He turns and looks into the face of his best friend`s wife, dressed in black and obviously pregnant.

"You didn't – through that window?"

"I have a key, Sherlock. Didn't you know? My husband works here."

"Kind to leave the boxes for me to stand on."

"My pleasure. I knew you`d show up sooner or later."

**X**

They sit in the semi-darkness of the CCTV room scanning the footage. The gun is safely housed, but Sherlock knows better than to upset Mary Watson at this point (_at any point, really, but, you know …)_

"You should have come to see me, Mary."

"My husband asked me not to, and I`m perfectly capable of sorting this out myself. Someone has got to him – there is an air of Magnussen about this."

No kidding.

"Agreed, and yet we both know that to be impossible. You may mock me for saying this Mary, but I do think this is all about me – "

She turns sharply, pausing the rewind button.

"I _absolutely_ think so, Sherlock. Ego aside, someone is using John to punish you, and I want to find out how and why."

"Then you had better consider your current condition and my considerable skillset and agree to work with me. Things will move along a lot more quickly, I assure you."

Mary appears to relax a smidgen, and the Black Ops seem to recede slightly, allowing her humanity back into the room.

"Yeah," she sighs. "Yeah, Sherlock. You`re not too bad at this, and I couldn't shoot you again – Molly would never forgive me."

**X**

"Ok, ok – stop!"

"Bald man or blonde nurse?"

"How d`you know she`s a nur – oh, never mind – the bald man. Wait, wait, Sherlock, until he turns towards the camera… now, look at his mouth."

"Oh – oh, this is excellent."

"That mouth – it`s like some great cod fish, and John was mumbling something about a `_fish man_` – when he was having nightmares … wait, _what_ is excellent?"

Sherlock is grinning, as happy as she has ever seen him when he knows something has clicked into place.

"How fortunate that Wiggins furnished me with a list of recent releases from Pentonville, at our last meeting. This fellow, Mary, is one of my customers. Let me introduce you to Mr Georges Von Kramm (_down on John`s list as a Mr Kemp_), possessor of a fish stall in Billingsgate, a rather pernicious swindling addiction and a list of alias`s as long as your arm. The last time we met, he made me late for a wedding and ruined my best morning suit."

"Oh my God, the Billingsgate Swindler! Out at last is he?"

"Out and about and extremely upset at my treatment of him when we last met. I would go as far as saying, the possessor of a very incumbent grudge against me."

"Him?" Mary squints in towards the fuzzy screen, showing a short, rotund, bald man, wearing a strangely incongruous decorated waistcoat. "He would want to ruin your friendship with John?"

Sherlock sat back in the chair, ignoring a buzz from his phone.

"No. Not him. Someone has employed him to carry out some ground work. Someone, who knows my career so well as to be able to pick and choose the help of the available criminals, someone who want to see me suffer. He probably did it for a discount, or even _gratis_."

His phone buzzed again.

"We need to find who he`s working for."

"Yes_, I_ do, Mary."

She is mutinous in her glare, and Sherlock contemplates her carefully. Human interaction of this kind – _not his area_ – so he must tread deliberately to get what he wants.

"You are pregnant, emotionally involved, overworked, and have a meeting with Sholto`s teacher tomorrow to discuss his behaviour, which you absolutely cannot miss. Also, John would never forgive you interfering with an issue he clearly holds so close that he is unwilling to see me to discuss it. Remember that John has risked his life for me, many times, yet he is unwilling to go against his blackmailer in any way that would threaten this issue. Mary, he would never forgive you. You can`t ask him to forgive you again."

She sags a little and sighs. She is very tired.

The phone buzzes a third time.

"Ok, Sherlock – sort this out. You have to sort this out, because it is damaging everyone."

Sherlock looks into the blueness of her eyes and feels the tug towards his friend through them. We are all inextricably linked now, all of us. Mycroft was right - this is what happens when you fall into _the world of the goldfish…_

… you like them, and you love them, then spend the rest of your days fearing their loss.

_Damn_.

**X**

Sherlock has reset the window and the alarms, repositioned the stockroom and helped Mary rewind all tapes and replace all misplacements. It has taken a while and by the time she is in a taxi and he is walking back to Baker Street (to think) it is three o`clock in the morning. What was Mrs Watson going to say to her husband this time? As his phone buzzes again, Sherlock reflects that it might be important – that it might be Molly…

He scrolls down. They are all from Mycroft:

_`Please don't cause any damage, Sherlock.`_

_`Make sure you leave everything as you find it.`_

_`Ensure Mrs Watson gets home safely (in her condition).`_

_`I have copies of the tapes here. You only had to ask.`_

How very vexatious.

**X**

I am intrinsically selfish.

Harry Watson was more than correct (impossible – what could be _more than_ correct? – but it _is_ very late) when she levelled this accusation at me. Before I fell in with _the_ _Goldfish,_ (I may fool myself temporarily that it was a conscious decision, but the dawn clawing at the window pane insists I am at least _honest_ about it) I did as I pleased, offended who stood in my way and alienated anyone I did not have time for. There were _many_ of these people.

The work was all.

The real world to me, was Plato`s Cave – mere shadows of reality that bore no real influence unless they took my interest. My Mind Palace was the reality and the application of thought, the science of deduction and the cerebral processing of the data into an accurate and pleasing conclusion, was my _raison d`etre_.

If this conclusion pleased others besides myself, this was an additional (but unnecessary) bonus.

Like I said, _selfish_.

With such selfishness comes an arrogance and anti-social demeanour which eventually isolates a person from the world of _humanity_. This may seem acceptable (pleasant, even) at first, but eventually, there comes a humbling realisation which even the most genius of men are bothered by –

_Loneliness._

So, over the past five or six years, I have endeavored to check my selfishness, since I felt no draw into the barren world of the chronically lonely. Being less selfish (thoughtless?) usually leads to rewards – new cases, morning coffee made for me, a rush of endorphins when someone holds me (rather than a shudder of irritation and discomfort), and, most bizarrely, love.

I love, and I have been rewarded with the love of others. It cannot be a one way street, since love is an ever changing dynamic which pulses, alters, evolves through time and space. It can be present and absent in a microsecond, and is as volatile and unpredictable as a callously mixed batch of _triacetone triperoxide_. I have learnt to take care and to heed the feelings of others. It has been a long and hazardous road, but I am making progress.

Thus, as I enter Baker Street this morning (_almost five a.m. in fact_), I take a moment to ponder on what a selfless person would do. I would like nothing more than to take my cold and tired body to the bed of Molly Hooper and allow myself the alluring luxury of wrapping around her fragrant warmth and losing my consciousness beside her calming heart.

But, no.

She will be at work in roughly three hours, needing to tend to a five year old child and six month old baby. A chilling and disturbing presence she does not need (since questions _will_ be asked as to my dubious whereabouts this very night), and so I, less happily, elect to take the sofa (_climbing the stairs to 221A would be a martyred step too far_). I shed my coat (_where? I care not_) and pull the checked blanket from John`s chair (_John! I will bring you back_) over myself. Shoes are somewhere on the stairs – I am hoping Mrs Hudson puts a light on before ascending tomorrow.

The wool tickles my cheek as I close my eyes against the lightening skies, (_curtains? Pah! Draw yourselves_!) and I inhale and exhale slowly, if slightly raggedly. I register that I am quite exhausted. _Annoying…_

I am startled to full consciousness by a warm hand smoothing my hair, and a soft whisper close to my ear.

"Come to bed, you idiot," says Molly Hooper, a slight hint of amusement (?) in her tone.

"Mmm _… Circe_… enchantress ..." I mumble, unhelpfully, but I allow her to haul me up (_how is she so strong?!)_ and steer me to the bedroom.

"Dint want to dissturb … "

She pushes me onto the bed.

"I know, which is why I came to get you, oh eloquent one. Have you brought back John?"

"Almossst," I mutter, before she, and sleep, claim me.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Georges Von Kramm (the Billingsgate Swindler) tangled (literally) with Sherlock in `Late: A Study in Punctuality`**

**Arcoiris: Brown coats? I was thinking of Sherlock with the eyeball in the tea in TSOTT - (funny) - had to put the `pengwings` in there - bet he`s very careful pronouncing it from now on!**


	9. Fish out of Water

Georges Von Kramm has had rather a nasty day so far.

His new tailor couldn't find an appointment to measure him for his new waistcoat until next Thursday; this would certainly upset Kurt, who always wanted them to look good together – a matched pair, if you will.

In addition, his boiler had turned into more of a `_simmerer_` and he had a mountain of dishes to wash, therefore endless kettles to boil. That was all very well, but as a recently released guest of Her Majesty`s Pleasure, he had a limited budget which he preferred to lavish on bespoke tailoring rather than fuel bills. A further upset had been caused by a loose and painful molar which was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, added to the knowledge that a follow-up meeting with an agent of his new employer was in the offing. Somehow, Georges`s erudite and suave delivery deserted him like ice in a furnace in the presence of any minion connected to his _new employer_. There was something about this job that disturbed him – and made his teeth ache (more). He hated Sherlock Holmes as much as the next rule-breaker, but a smart-arsed attempt at revenge seemed to have rebounded, leaving Georges with the very real impression of jumping from a very large frying pan into an even larger fire.

His text pinged suddenly and Georges scanned it, a sunny smile playing across his generous lips and breaking through all the cloud. It seemed his tailor could fit him in after all, and had even offered a home visit by way of reparation for his previous, fruitless visit.

In the next five minutes? Goodness, it was a good job he was home! Georges set about, straightening his coffee table magazines and plumping his sparse few cushions – it wouldn't do for an employee from St. John`s of Saville Row to find his home lacking. Perhaps he should filter some coffee?

Four and a half minutes later and a sharp rap on the door resounds around the tiny, cluttered flat. Georges shrugs – he`s done his best; perhaps Mr Jamieson wouldn't mind taking his measurements in the living room, since it was easily the tidiest…

"Come in, come in – I am so pleased you found the time to call by Mr J – oh! You can`t be serious – stay away from me, you bastard!"

And within approximately thirty five seconds, Georges Von Kramm`s day has gone from merely nasty to downright disastrously _wrecking-balled_, as he finds himself pinned to a flimsy basket chair by a knee across his lap and a long, sinewy arm around his neck. _A tightening arm_.

"Lovely to catch up again, Georges. Sorry I`m not your tailor, but we can call down there on some other occasion if you wish it – you owe me a new morning suit, and I may have need of it in the months to come … how very fortuitous that Mycroft and yourself share the same tailor (I`d recognise that waistcoat pattern anywhere) – and to think, I didn't believe in serendipity! … hold fast now – I quite forgot what a slippery little fishmonger you were. Deceptively powerful, yet disappointingly stupid. _Always check who`s at the door_ – did you learn nothing in prison?"

Georges` fish like grimace split, allowing a rather explicit tumble of insults to spill out of his mouth.

Sherlock smiled and tightened his grip.

"Enchanting, but mummy always said that if you`ve nothing nice to say, it`s best not to say anything. Perhaps, when I have tied you up, I should gag you?"

"You may as well, you interfering bastard, cos I`m not going to tell you anything!"

"Oh dear," Sherlock`s sing-song tone is more than annoying, "but I have Kurt on speed dial, and I anticipate that you two might need a chat after my revelations about your previous residence. I do suspect he knows little of your less than salubrious past…oh, quieter now? That`s better. Much better, Mr Von Kramm. Shall I turn off your coffee pot? Consider me impressed already by your lovely home."

**X**

Cheap furnishings, poorly functioning fittings (_including boiler_), tragic attempt at home-making (_lifestyle magazines_), recently acquired boyfriend (_framed picture taken since end of incarceration judging by poster behind them and clothing_) whom he`s trying to impress and keep his secret from (aspirational wardrobe and general living beyond means) – all in all, a fairly woeful _nemesis _for my delectation. After Kramm is securely tied (and gagged – turns out I do need some time to explore and his incessant assailing of my character is becoming quite tedious), I explore.

I peruse the tiny kitchen (slightly chaotic, but who am I to judge?) and depressingly cramped bedroom, but find nothing of note. Obviously maintaining an anonymity where possible – sensible (except for the framed picture – sentiment again – _sigh_), until I turn to the bookcase. Every book case has to tell a tale of the person who stocks it, but this one proves as dull as ditch water. I had no idea so many Reader`s Digest volumes existed; and who are Mills & Boon? Their jackets alarm me, so I replace them quickly. A medical journal (_hypchondriac_); Enid Blyton selection (nostalgic for `idyllic` childhood memories – more sentiment) and … well, well – how very incongruous …

_The Origin of Species_ by Charles Darwin.

Standing out like a sore thumb; like a fish out of water (if you pardon the choice of words). I lift it down, flicking through and sniffing the pages. Lime – a faint and unmistakable tang of lime. I closely examine the pages with my lens and find a tiny smudge on the top right of several pages (oil?), which generates the more intense citrus hit. At the front of the book (_published April 1983_), a stamp for The Barbican Library. Last borrowed three weeks ago.

Interesting.

I turn to Von Kramm, removing his gag. After the vitriol has subsided slightly, I inform him:

"I know you have been employed in your grubby little task from a higher quarter, and that you will have no knowledge of your employer or his whereabouts, therefore I won`t be bothering to question you. Suffice to say, if you do necessitate any level of discomfort to myself, or anyone I care about, I shall not hesitate to carry out my threat regarding Kurt. In addition, I do have hard legal evidence of your involvement in what is obviously a blackmail case, and access to your probation officer."

I smile at his stupefied, guppy-like expression. The perfect symmetry of blackmailing a blackmailer is quite aesthetically pleasing to me.

"You`re mental – a nutter – a _psychopath_!"

"I am an evolving and transmogrifying Consulting Detective – " I tap my jacket pocket – "with your number. Good day, Mr Kramm."

And I leave (with _The Origin of Species_).

Let him untie himself.

In good time.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Oh dear, and I thought I was having a bad day! Origin of Species? Hmm...**

**Thank you for reviews and encouragement - it really does make a difference! :)**

**Arcoiris: I am so glad it all makes sense - I sometimes wonder if I`m too rambling! Thank you so much. Have a soft spot for Sherlock POV!**

**Beautiful cover art by PlentyofPixels**


	10. The Land of Tears

Sherlock focuses intently. His modified Clevenger apparatus was less than top notch and had only made it into the rarefied environs of Skylab by the skin of its teeth. Expression or distillation had been used to extract the oil from the page – _citrus aurantifolia_, from the _Rutaceae_ family, otherwise known as the West Indian lime; known to lift depression and lighten the mood. Shame his mood wasn't particularly lightened by this knowledge …

What he really needed was a gas chromatograph, with mass selective detector, and a fused silica capilar column, but Molly drew the line at those sort of industrial pieces of equipment in an _actual_ house, so it would be quite tricky to compare the CG retention indices. _How trying_. Hydrodistillation was one thing, but what he really wanted was supercritical carbon dioxide extraction … maybe a trip to Bart`s was going to be necessary …

Lestrade put down his mug and took a biscuit from the plate offered by Molly Hooper. He had a sleeping baby girl over on shoulder and a custard cream in his hand. Molly repressed a smile, since it was a little bit on the sweet side.

"How long`s he been like that, then?"

She shrugs, watching Sherlock mutter something about `_a-penene vs b-penene_` before resuming a seat at his microscope.

"Around four and a half hours, give or take. It`s for a case, well, _the_ case, really. Everything else has been pushed to one side."

"Sounds really important."

"It is. Someone has stolen John away from us, and we want him back."

A shadow passes across Lestrade`s face. He knew all about John Watson disappearing into the ether. Disappearing in plain sight. There, but not there. It hurt his heart quite a bit.

"Seiga told me what he`s like without John. Being away with Sherlock on that New Forest case made her realise what a unique pairing they`ve got. Irreplaceable."

Molly looks down, since she doesn't trust herself to meet his kindly eyes. Greg watches her, then looks to Sherlock, who seems completely impervious to their presence. He gently lifts the sleeping weight of Viola Holmes and passes her to her mother. She stirs and curls up tighter, like an amonite.

"This is why I`m here, Molly. Sherlock asked me if anything unusual has happened that could be linked to John, and Anderson `fessed up to something this morning - a bit of a cock up in the evidence room pertaining to a certain Harriet Watson. Think he`ll be interested?"

So intent are they both, that a deep voice, directly beside Lestrade`s chair startles them:

"Yes," comments Sherlock Holmes, "he most definitely will."

**X**

So, the facts are these …

Someone is blackmailing John Watson to stay away from me – a motive, as yet, unknown.

Said blackmailer has stolen evidence placing Harry Watson at the scene of a crime, and is withholding it to keep John in line.

Georges Von Kramm knows little or nothing of his employer, but has had this book (_Origin of Species_) placed in his home, for me to find.

Said book placer has borrowed the book from the Barbican Library at the exact time John was told to stay away; also, they wear lime oil cologne.

Said lime oil cologne is evident only on certain pages. These pages happen to match up with a random code (`_An Original Cypher_`) found on my Blog recently. Not a coincidence. The first word of each of these pages provides a message.

This is the message: `_Fortified/out/post/and/gate/way_`.

This is the definition of `_Barbican`_ - home of a leading London playhouse and library, from whence the book was taken.

According to the Barbican website, the play being shown this week is `_The Little Prince_` by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. It is billed as the story of "the friendship and love, duty and loyalty, beauty and intolerance for evil".

I am sensing that I am being led towards a lesson of some kind. I understand that it could be slightly dangerous. I also understand that it could bring me closer to who is doing this.

As if `_The Origin of Species_` wasn't already more than enough.

But, baby likes to play, so – let`s play a game …

A game called `friendship`.

**X**

From Baker Street, to Foley Street, then onto Frobisher Crescent. I walk quickly; briskly. Almost three miles to the Barbican – not worth a taxi in rush hour traffic. I am finding myself walking a lot more without John. Taxi rides used to give me the chance to explain everything and wait for him to praise me – not the same on my own.

Through Cleveland Street then onto Maple and University Street. I take a right onto Gower Street, then left to Oxford Street, towards Clerkenwell Road. John didn't want his sister`s descent made worse by her involvement in the warehouse killing. If he stays away from me, whoever has stolen the video evidence would keep it away from the trial, and charges would be dropped. Family and friends; loyalty and love – is it any wonder I tend to shy away from waters so murky?

Right onto Golden Lane, left to Beech Street, then a right via Silk Street and only Frobisher Crescent, and there it is – the fortress; the stronghold; the Barbican.

The library is vast, airy and well stocked. John Watson would have me as a logical purist; a scientific brain, but I am also a lover of the written word – oh John, there is so much you don't yet know of me – and I must confess that the sight of so many books pressed together in one space is a singularly sensual thing. Was it Salman Rushdie who said that literature was where he went to explore the highest and lowest places in human society and in the human spirit, and where he hoped to find not absolute truth but the truth of the tale, the imagination and the heart.

Not me, I just want to find the truth.

I am typing `friendship` and `loyalty` into the database when I sense a shadow, and the faintest whiff of disinfectant, sherbert lemons, anti-bacterial hand wash and … vomit?

"Been on the children`s ward this afternoon, Mary?" I ask as 1,463 pages of titles are found in my search_. Narrow it down!_

"Hi, sweetie, I want to help, and you can`t stop me."

"Do you have a gun?" I whisper, typing in `top ten pairings in literature`.

"No, but I have souped-up hormone levels and I will cry if you refuse – noisily and publically. I know this is utterly disloyal to John, Sherlock, but I won`t watch him suffer like this – " she taps the screen " – that`s us; a top ten pairing. A couple. We`re married, Sherlock – for better and for worse."

I regard her carefully. Recent hair cut – new hairdresser (doesn't feel comfortable telling her she doesn't like it); put on a pound or two – sickness must be subsiding.

"Marriage seems to take quite a lot of compromise and putting one`s own needs as secondary importance."

She considers (touching her hair again – hates the colour too), regarding me right back. Always useful to have such honest eye-contact with Mary Watson.

"When you`re married – in love – Sherlock, you consider the other person`s needs over your own. Their happiness is more important than anything else. Second nature, mate."

I contemplate.

"Face it, we`re both screwed. Now, what are we looking for?"

I choose the most useful and likely publications from my new (much more manageable) list, and give half of them to Mary. Between us, we check the volumes of the following:

_The Adventures of Tom Sawyer _(Mark Twain) – differences that unite two children from vastly contrasting backgrounds

_The Kite Runner_ (Khaled Husseini) – friendship, loyalty, betrayal and redemption (promising)

_Three Comrades_ (Erich Maria Remarque) – the story of comrades in war and a lost generation

_Hamlet – Prince of Denmark_ (William Shakespeare) – Horatio, the loyal friend and only survivor

_The Interestings_ (Meg Wolitzer) – what happens when friends are jealous

_The Three Musketeers_ (Alexandre Dumas) – not strictly a pairing, but feats of courage, love, honour and glory – _hmmm_.

_Don Quixote_ (Miguel de Cervantes) – the tale of Sancho Panza and the Don – hero and sidekick on an epic journey (interesting).

All are inspirational great works of classic and modern literature, and uphold the bonds of friendship and love above all else; as the heart of everything. Marvellous and true. Also true is the very faint taint of lime oil on every single one of these volumes. I sniff a few others, not on the list, for the sake of a variable (science!) but there is nothing.

"Someone really wants to teach you a lesson, Sherlock," whispers Mary, as we replace the books on the shelves.

I nod, as I glance across at a poster advertising _The Little Prince_ play, beginning that Saturday. Its tagline reads:

_`I did not know how to reach him, how to catch up with him … the land of tears is so mysterious.`_

"The question remains," I sigh, lightly, "is how I show I`ve learnt my lesson, and what my teacher may want in return."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sherlock may be in for a slice of humble pie - how will he cope, and who is serving it up?**

**Arcoiris: Apologies for saying `cover art` - I meant `book cover` (as in, next to the title, illustrating the story) -duh! The thought of anyone actually doing any cover art for any of my stories makes me kind of giddy with excitement actually - one can dream!**


	11. Swimming with Sharks

**Thirty-six hours later …**

The feet running up the seventeen stairs are angry feet.

Molly Hooper opens the door with a mixture of trepidation and indignation at the lateness of the hour, to rendezvous with Gregory Lestrade`s _extremely pissed off_ visage on the landing.

"He`s gone too bloody far this time – Seiga is fricking furious, Molly!" His voice is artificially lowered in deference to a sleeping Viola in her arms, but every word is bitten off with anger.

"You know his methods, Greg," she answers, in apologetic defiance.

**X**

My sister will be less than happy I have stolen her phone … oh, and betrayed her trust, lied to her and breeched the unspoken agreement between us regarding her father – all of that will not serve to oil the wheels of sibling affiliation. But still – this is for John, and I would do just about anything to make this right.

Professor Bartholomew Moriarty – it is you, isn't it? It always, somehow comes back to you. Our little bait and switch; dodge and weave; box and cox – our little involvement that endures through life and through death. Dancing around each other like little, jerky puppets; he pushes me, I push him, and it`s all fun and games until somebody takes a fall.

_There`ll be tears before bedtime, Sherlock._

The Origin of Species – a reprint from April 1984, the month of Seiga`s birth – his daughter; his only child.

_~~x~~_

"_Ah, yes. Such a wonderful thing, to see how your gardens grow. Little Mary, quite contrary, with Sholto, and Dr Hooper and the bewitching Benedict – all your sons. Your species. What is our role, but to further our origins, to procreate…"*_

"_My – father, he says that blood is not always the indicator of family – "_

"_My father knows and envies your family because they save you, Sherlock. Not just Mycroft, or Miriam, or Vernet, but Molly, the children, and most of all – "_

John.

~~x~~

He`s made John stay away from me because John is my friend, _my family_ when I had no-one else (_wanted no-one else_). His brother, Jim, shot himself because of me; his daughter, Seiga, refused to play that role, so I must be punished; to see what he has lost by losing someone myself. Bartholomew Moriarty knows how I have evolved, gradually but irretrievably, from that selfish, one dimensional island of a man into a man who enjoys, and comes to need, the attentions of others. And Mycroft, clever, clever Mycroft was right all along – caring is _not_ an advantage.

It makes a person weak and vulnerable. It makes a person stop, hesitate and examine (_and re-examine_) their motives and question their decision making processes. Ah, I do so miss the illicit thrill of a thoughtless decision, which may make a witness cry, but gets the job done quicker. When Molly Hooper and her insidious witchcraft wasn't even a speck on the horizon, I waltzed in, took what I wanted and got the job done. No distractions, no grit upon the lens, no misfiring of the racing engine or locked doors in the mind palace. Should my brain attic be full of diverting information (_Benedict`s global warming project; Viola`s favourite toy ? – stuffed platypus – I hate that I know that; diamond rings, and Mrs Hudson`s chrysanthemum`s – see! Why can`t I delete this detritus?! Infuriating_) which dilutes and reduces efficacy of my cold, hard logic.

Because I care about John Watson, I am standing here, at the top of a row of cracked and faded slides in Brighton`s abandoned water park. An embarrassment of appalling British summers combined with the cheapness of last minute package deals to the Costas have resulted in thousands of tonnes of paint peeling concrete, slowly crumbling away, and lacking its most essential ingredient – water. The graffiti is plentiful, garish and imaginatively obscene, and I admit to feeling a slight thrill and a shiver inside as I read one offering in bright yellow aerosol (_Razz_?):

_`I believe in Sherlock Holmes`_

Which does, I confess, afford me a degree of comfort in these confusing times.

After contacting the Professor on Seiga`s stolen phone, I received GPS co-ordinates which brought me to this spot. _A giant water chute – very droll_. I check my watch and pray that my sister will appear in time. No point levying a bargain without leverage. I am using my sister to bring back my friend … selfish, thoughtless, arrogant – I almost feel like my old self.

I sense her approach (her body lotion is _Angel by Thierry Mugler_ – far too noticeable for an MI6 agent, I must have words, though perhaps not now) and prepare myself for her anger, although I am not expeditious enough, since her slap stings my cheek a second before I can grab her wrist.

"Du absolut smyga! Du hade ingen rätt att göra detta! Jag knullar hatar dig för detta, Sherlock!"

She is about to go in for another slap (surprisingly, not as hard as Molly Hooper – who would have known?) when a scuffling is heard and a figure emerges from the shadows at the crumbling pale blue entrance of the slide. We have all had to climb almost sixty steps to reach this height, but our guest is breathing more heavily that average, indicating a greater age or lower fitness level.

I certainly did not expect to see Bartholomew Moriarty emerge from the shabby little door (doesn`t he have enough blood on his hands in his dealings with me?) but this creature, his agent, seems ill-equipped to broker any arrangement between us. He is tiny, just over five feet I estimate, around sixty years old, with white, close-cropped hair and matching pale eyelashes beneath the tinted lenses of small round, wire framed glasses. He peers myopically through them at the both of us, and then I don`t believe that show of helplessness for a second – he is ready for us. The bumbling, breathless elderly gentleman act is purported further via extensively tweedy clothing, a small trilby and a pocket watch – _a pocket watch_, I ask you! The Professor obviously feels the need to engender _Am-Dram_ night at the water park, but neither of us are fooled as we note the outline of his automatic weapon as he reaches to dab his brow with a silken handkerchief – _please._ All that tweed does not hide the tightly packed muscleature of a trained operative and the white hair and sunglasses indicate the colouring of an albino rather than an elderly man – sixty? Re-calibrate ... forty, at the most.

He smiles, and that fanciful back room in my mind palace treacherously blossoms forth, unbidden –

_Shark. _

"Well, well," the handkerchief is pocketed – I think he knows he hasn`t really fooled us, but it was worth a try, no? "Two for the price of one – how charming, and how efficient." He is favouring his left leg – an injury on the right (knee?) still bothers him.

Seiga looks at me. She is no fool (_how is that even a possibility?)_ and she knows what I want, and that there will be a cost. I am currently unsure it is a cost she is willing to pay, and I cannot press her to it, unless there is even the slightest hint that she wishes it too. I cannot process the cost to her, even though I feel I might be reduced to begging (_not yet; never_); do we not just judge ourselves by our intentions, but often judge others by their behaviour? She appears angry, trapped, mutinous – I am so poor at this; I wish John were here.

The evening is drawing in, as spring clouds darken over a paling sun. Golds and reds light up the faded blue paintwork of the concrete and it`s almost beautiful.

"What do you need, Mr Holmes?" The Great White has a smile for me, and hands open towards me (to inspire – trust? _Look how open I am...I have nothing to hide from you..._) and I note a dark smudge on his wrist – prison tattoo, possibly Durham (nice link to his employer) – and a slight wheeze to his tone (asthmatic? Over use of steriods to counter it – another weakness).

"The evidence that has been taken from Scotland Yard – a letter and CCTV footage which incriminate Harriet Watson in regard to the Trevor Bennett killing – I want you to destroy it."

Seiga`s intake of breath is not unexpected, but I think she will realise there are many grey areas that must be breached; there are many ways to save a life.

"Harry Watson must be given the chance to claw back some of her life. She will be released without this evidence, and will have the chance to rehabilitate herself."

"That is what SHE needs, Mr Holmes. My employer would really like to know what it is YOU need. It was one of his special requests." Gleaming teeth, taking a bite of me. A sacrifice should come from me too – thoroughly fitting, so I allow it, saying:

"I need John Watson to come back to me. I need him to know his sister is safe, and to be in my – "

How ridiculous – I cannot falter now, but I do, I do. My tongue is thick and useless in my mouth and my jaw seems – tensed.

"Take your time, Mr Holmes. My employer was very specific that you told the truth. He needs to know that you _understand_."

And I do – I _do_ understand what John is to me. He came to me when we were both so lost, and he was a gift (_I no longer care if I am fanciful or not_) who made me cups of tea, passed me pens, listened and understood what vexed and what perplexed –

_That was brilliant. Fantastic. Amazing_

He was (is) my window to the world; my conduit, when things are confusing and irritating. First John, then Molly, helped me to understand and attain the potential to enjoy humanity, in all its forms. Like the Little Prince, he tamed me, and we only properly understand the things we tame ourselves. I both see and observe, but it is only with the heart that one can properly see what is invisible to the eye …

I sigh, and close my eyes. Whatever it takes, Sherlock.

"John is my friend, my best friend – the best man that anyone could ever have. He is more – he is my family, my loyalty, my understanding of what is right in this world, and I need to – have. Him. Back."

And I breathe a harsh (_and slightly shuddering) breath_ and open my eyes. Both Shark man and Seiga are staring at me; he with the quiver of a smile hovering –

(_kick the left knee, twist him around, take out the gun, smash it across his teeth until they are bloody, pulpy gums … no, Sherlock, no)_

"Oh, that is excellent, Mr Holmes, excellent, it seems you _do_ understand, after all. My employer will be so pleased; he wanted you to know the importance of having family and friends close by. Now," he turns to my sister, as the last bit of daylight is fading from the sky. "What do you think you may offer in return?"

**X**

Sherlock and I sit underneath one of the few working lamp posts in this derelict monolith to twenty-first century optimism. There must be nothing more sad than an abandoned and deserted place of fun; more poignant, somehow, than an empty prison, or hospital. Moriarty`s man is long gone and we sit, sharing a cigarette (_so bad, I know_) and just – _being._ I was pretty angry with him – such arrogance and high-handed behaviour – what a selfish bastard, my brother. He has held me to ransom, but then I knew my father would someday find a way of reaching me. If you are the _Napoleon of Crime_, why would you bother with family counselling sessions? Why not just steal, blackmail and extort people`s emotions to get what you want? Simple, really.

For three years, I have ignored all attempts by my father to make more contact. It was a point of pride with me. But I knew; I still knew.

I would eventually have to know more of him, no matter how little that something may be.

So, for Sherlock and for myself, I have come to `_an arrangement_`. I will correspond (via email) with my father once every six months, and he may email me once, in return. I wish to know nothing pertaining to his `_interests_` and he will know only the barest bones of my life. We will probably never meet, and no other point of contact may be breeched. In return, he will destroy all evidence linking Harry Watson to the Trevor Bennett warehouse killing and I must lie to my lovely Gregory, since I cannot compromise his position. I was not going to do this, even for Sherlock – it has already cost me much. However, when I heard his words about John Watson, and I felt his voice break (_just a little, __min älskling, just a little_), I knew it had to be so.

"What are you thinking about, Sherlock?"

He blows out the smoke into the cooling night air and I shiver a touch. In my haste, I brought no coat. Sherlock passes me the cigarette, then takes off his Belstaff and places it around my shoulders. Maybe not such a selfish bastard, after all.

"Bees," he answers, staring up into the heavens. "The very rare _Andrena Vega_ bee, last seen sixty eight years ago, has recently been spotted in Kent." He pauses. "Just when you think you`ve lost something precious and rare – "

He turns to look at me and he doesn`t need to say thank you, because it exudes from him, from every fibre of his being.

" – it comes back to you," I say, and lean my head on his boney shoulder, inhaling and holding the smoke in my mouth for a second.

"Also," continues my _uncharacteristically chatty_ littlest brother, "I would advise you to prepare yourself – "

_Helig helvete, vad händer nu?_

"Lestrade is going to propose to you in the next week or so. He has the ring, the venue and has even drafted the words he will say."

And suddenly, I am choking, like a fourteen year old school kid with her first cigarette; I am choking and Sherlock is hitting me on the back (_useless_) and laughing at me.

"He – told you?" I manage to splutter out, eyes watering and nose running.

"Deduced it. Simplest thing in the world. Do try to act surprised though, when he does it."

"Well, Sherlock, I may have actually _been_ surprised, you know, if you hadn`t actually _told me_!"

But he just takes the last drag and blows it out to join the stars in the inky black night sky.

**X**

The totally familiar yellow tape stretches, fluttering, across the road; blues and twos blocking the end of the street; unidentifiable bodies in head to toe blue nylon suits and masks, stepping over invisible markers on the ground that only they can see –

_A crime scene_.

Oh, how I`ve missed you.

I duck under the tape into the buzz of crackling radios and shouted commands from one side of the garden and into the house. Sally Donovan holds up a hand to me, but it isn`t a command to stop (who goes there?) but an acknowledgement; a welcome; a `glad to have you back`. Seems like Sally has buried that hatchet (for the most part) quite a while ago.

"Good to see you, John; Mary ok? Sholto? Any complaints this week?"

"None this week – best behaviour, Sally, and we`re letting him take Taekwondo lessons as a reward."

She gives a slightly fearful grimace. "Might live to regret that, mate," she breathes, pointing upstairs to where the _main action_ is.

It`s a bit mad, but I`m feeling my heart pounding in my chest, like I`m nervous, or something. Jesus, I AM nervous – of course I am. I`ve been in a living hell for the past month – treading some kind of diabolical tightrope to try and keep the peace with a mental, evil genius (and no, I don`t mean Sherlock).

_Sherlock._

There it is again, my stupid heart. What must he have thought of me? I wasn`t allowed to explain, or make any kind of contact. I know Mary sneaked around, trying to help, but I was really mad with her for that – she could have made things go so wrong for Harry. Infuriating though it is, but Harry isn`t ever going to know (or appreciate) what we have done for her. She`s kind of blinkered around Sherlock – thinks he`s an arse (which he can be) and has no redeemable features, but she`s wrong, so wrong. I know he and Seiga had to put forward some kind of `deal` - I don`t know and I don`t want to know, but they have been selfless and amazing, and I will, one day, tell Harry what they did for her. For me.

I round the newel post at the top of the stairs and I am sweating and shaky. Stupid me. You`d think I`d never seen a dead body (albeit with no fingertips) before. And I step, boldly, into the room where Lestrade and Anderson stand back, watching, and Sherlock hovers over the body with his lens, and his coat and that mad hair. It looks, to me, like an almost exact re-enactment of the first time he did this (_I wrote it up as `A Study in Pink_`) and amazed the bloody life out of me. If I didn`t know better, I`d think he`d set it up, just for maximum dramatic effect _("God, Sherlock, that was fantastic!"_) to impress me ...

Then he looks up, with those sodding _mesmerising_ eyes, and his lips press together in an astonishingly genuine smile.

"Hello John," he says, "welcome back, we`ve missed you."

Yeah, Sherlock Holmes, I love you too.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: *this quote comes from an earlier story (When Sherlock Met the Other One) and is spoken by Professor Bartholomew Moriarty to Sherlock. The Professor is brother to James/Jim and father to Seiga.**

_**Du absolut smyga! Du hade ingen rätt att göra detta! Jag knullar hatar dig för detta, Sherlock - You absolute bastard! You had no right to do this! I fucking hate you for this, Sherlock! **_

_**Hooray! The boys are back in town! All is right with the world! What could possibly happen next? (clue: a lot!)**_

_**John - I love you too x**_

_**Arcoiris: Librarians rock! I know a few! Have you been to the Barbican Library? Quite impressive! Love Mary and Sherlock dynamic too - will be so sad if they kill her off. The appliance of science is a tough one for me, so I do hope it looks a little authentic! :)**_


	12. The Mystery of the Persian Slipper

_Gavin Lestrade? He's a man, and good at it._

_It's __Greg__. And he's not my best friend.  
>Oh, Mike Stamford, I see. Well, he's nice, um, though I'm not sure how well he'd cope with all ...<br>No, Mike's great, but __he's__ not my best friend.  
>(A pause – Sherlock is looking blank)<br>Look, Sherlock, this is the biggest and most important day of my life.  
><em>_(Sherlock is dubiously, pulling a face) __Well ...  
>No, it <em>_is__! It __is__, and I want to be up there with the __two__ people that I love and care about most in the world.  
>Yes.<br>__(a pause)__  
>Mary Morstan ...<br>Yes.  
>... and ...<br>__(a pause whilst Sherlock awaits more data)__  
>... you.<em>

* * *

><p>It is three weeks after Sherlock Holmes and John Watson solved <em>The Case of the Vagrant Fingertips<em>, and Sherlock sits in his favoured chair, holding his Persian slipper in his left hand and smoothing down its soft velvet fabric with his right. It is quite soothing, although, Sherlock does reflect that the slipper`s comforting exterior gives little warning to the casual observer, of what lies within. He knows that this slipper holds within its maw, an object so powerful in its symbolism and universal recognition, that it (on a daily basis) serves to elicit huge emotional and physical reactions the world over, and changes people`s lives irrecoverably … irretrievably… immutably… until the very last syllable of recorded time.

_Forever._

It was so lovely to have John back. Working with him had been as seamless and effortless as investigating solubility patterns among common ionic compounds, or finding Mycroft`s hidden cameras (when he could be bothered) around the flat. What a fun murder that had been (although, perhaps not for Mr Talides and his fingers) – just like old times …

"Sherlock," observes Mary Watson from the sofa, "are you just going to fondle that slipper all night or actually have a fag? You`re obviously back on them, since I`ve noted lots of ash in the back yard."

"Unless you know ash, as I do, Mary, I would challenge you to be able to distinguish any of it as belonging to me. Wiggins and the Irregulars smoke out there all the time."

"Yeah, with _you_," notes John, smiling enough to make his friend reconsider his most recent train of thought – but not for long.

"John, you really would make an excellent Best Man."

John raises both eyebrows. As non sequiteurs go, that was pretty radical (_perhaps not for Sherlock and his unpredictable mind palace, though_).

"Yes," he concurs, carefully. "Yes, I would – have, actually. Three times, in fact; once for Harry and Clara, once for Mike and once for this idiot I knew from college when we were in Las Vegas. I would go as far to say that I was a bit of an expert in the etiquette of Best Manning. What brings you to this conclusion, Sherlock?"

Mary`s eyes are huge and her lips move to speak, but John squeezes her hand – _let me handle this_ says the squeeze.

Sherlock contemplates the slipper again as he speaks.

"It`s completely obvious, John. You are reliable, loyal, suitably emotional and gushing when the need would arise, and possibly the best man I have ever met. Simple and logical."

John moves slowly and deliberately, as if he has encountered a young fawn in a forest glade and does not wish to scare it away.

"So – o – o … are you knowing anyone who would be in need of my obvious and superlative talents in this – particular area? Are you putting me forward for Greg and Seiga? I rather think his brother`s going to take on that role – "

"No, John, do keep up, I need you to be a best man (you really are the obvious choice) - for me."

An audible squeak escapes from Mary.

"Sorry. Carry on," she whispers, heart beating like a sledgehammer, yet appearing passive and demure. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, since he knows her too well.

"Aaaand – sorry to be dim here, Sherlock – but why do YOU need a best man?" he pauses, grinning (_and loving this_), "is it for a case?"

"Pah! A sensible question (_no case, John_) – inexplicable, traditional idiocy – "

"Sherlock!" Mary is almost puce with the effort of _shutting the hell up_.

"Sherlock, I distinctly recall you saying `_weddings – not really my thing_`…"

Mary: "Oh God, Sherlock, it isn`t for a case is it? Because, I swear – "

"Good lord – is everyone _simple_!? The whole thing, of course, is a lamentable and archaic practice, with hardly anything, bar ludicrous optimism enabling its survival, but, if I were to choose the best man I know, I would choose _you_, John Watson."

John is almost ready to stop the torment. Almost.

"For a wedding?"

"Yes!"

"Who`s?"

A pause follows – a beat – a heartbeat.

"Mine," confirms Sherlock Holmes, as scuffling of feet and snuffling of babies can be heard from the stairwell.

Molly Hooper, looking as fresh and fragrant as the season she brings into the room with her, stands in a blue dress, sprigged with tiny white and yellow embroidered daisies, and carrying a squirming Viola (dressed, inexplicably, as a Tellytubby), accompanied by Benedict, all blue eyes and post-school crazy hair.

"Hey, hi, hi, hi everyone," she looks around at three faces that are frozen in time and place, staring at her.

"Did I miss something?" she says.

**X**

Martha Hudson shuts her door, thankfully, and falls heavily into her chair. Is it too early for a herbal soother? Probably best put the kettle on instead; tea with honey to soothe her nerves, since she`d just seen a sight she really couldn`t quite make sense of.

Truthfully, thinks Martha, spooning the dark, fragrant leaves into her tea pot, she had been privy to more than her fair share of odd encounters since being the landlady of Sherlock Holmes. Oddballs staggering into the rooms day and night, asking for assisstance; explosions wrecking her windows; very pushy Americans landing on her bins; indoor target practise and some very odd additions to the fridge (_some stains would never be removed, and even if they could, there`d be a second stain, taking its place the very next day_); not to mention, violin practise around the clock and those Scotland Yard people who never wipe their feet ...

A very long list indeed.

Today, however, was one of those occasions she could safely say she had never before experienced. John and Mary had called round again (she was so happy that John and Sherlock were over their little spat and were obviously making up for lost time) to talk about some case or another, so naturally, Martha knew they would properly appreciate a nice pot of darjeeling and some of her tray bake (_rocky road – a new direction for her_). She took her time going up the stairs. Whilst the tray wasn`t particularly heavy, she`d found it far too easy to step on something left carelessly on them (and not usually the fault of the children, either) and she didn`t want to be scrubbing the carpet again in the near future (tea stains were a bit of a nightmare to get out too). The door had been slightly ajar as she got to step number nine, and raised voices could be heard.

Sherlock.

And Mary.

"You hand that back, Mary Watson – _immediately_."

"I will, as soon as you tell me what I`m going to find in here – I already know, by the way!"

(_sounds of scuffling_)

"Then, why do you need _actual_ proof?"

"Because you need to share this with your BEST MAN!"

(_More scuffling and a slight exclamation_)

"This is truly ridiculous, the pair of you! How old are you?" John.

The tenth step creaks loudly (as it always does) and the scuffling and furniture scraping suddenly ceases, and as Martha Hudson tenatively pushes open the door of 221B, she contemplates its inhabitants.

John Watson sitting in his old chair (_aw – like old times_), newspaper pushed down and leaning forward – expression: annoyed.

Mary Watson and Sherlock Holmes leaning across the dining table from opposing ends, the only thing between them – Sherlock`s Persian slipper – which they both have one hand resting on. She was no detective, but the state of the tablecloth where they had been wrestling with it, told its own story. Mary looked emcumbered and breathless and Sherlock looked – was that a _blush_ across his cheeks? Goodness.

"How kind, Mrs Hudson," says John, "some tea and biscuits for the children. Do make room on the table for the tray, you two – and pass that bloody slipper to ME!"

Well –

Martha knew that Sherlock would never use a couple of words when a thousand would do, so was most perplexed to note he said nothing in response. No withering look either. Most unusual. Most probably Mary was trying to stop Sherlock smoking again, but it was no use, he would just find another hiding place for those cigarettes. It had been ages before she`d discovered the secret compartment in the cow skull.

As she pours the scalding water on the tea leaves, Martha gives up trying to piece together the latest conundrum, but it was true that Sherlock had been acting more than strangely these last few weeks. She hoped he really _was_ pleased about little Seiga`s engagement to Greg – what a lovely surprise that had been. At the Tower of London, in amongst all those beautiful Remembrance poppies – lovely, since Seiga was a proper fan of British culture.

Oh goodness – what was that now?

A shout (_no – a squeal_!) from upstairs. Were those two fighting again? Sherlock and Mary were a little bit too similar sometimes - oh dear – what should she do? Decision-making was snatched away from Martha Hudson, however, as seconds later, Mary and John came rumbling down the stairs to leave. As they pushed their faces around the door, Martha expected arguments and anger, but both faces looked extremely – _happy?!_

"Just off now, Mrs Hudson – sorry about the noise up there!" Mary`s eyes were shining – pregnancy was really making her skin glow too.

"Yeah," John also had a scarcely seen twinkle in his eye, "my wife is a little over-excited these days – apologies, and, would it be wrong to tell you that our pockets are crammed with your delicious rocky road for later?"

Martha manages a little shake of her head. They seem so – giddy.

"Grand – see you later. Oh, and I think you need to go up and speak with Sherlock. He`s got something to show you, and I think you are going to agree when you see it – it`s BRILLIANT!"

Sniggering and jostling each other like teenagers, the Watsons leave, and Martha Hudson steadies herself slightly before climbing those stairs again to see Sherlock.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Oh, the game is most definitely a-foot! Apologies for any unacceptable amounts of fluffiness that may emerge in the near future - he`s had it coming, to be honest ... :)**

**Arcoiris: good points - Sherlock does need to show his goodness by making sacrifices (and yes, the Professor is a wicked criminal mastermind, but no-one is sure what his game is by contacting Seiga ... does he have other agendas? Does she? Who else could have advised this `arrangement`? There is so much potential for double-crossings and badness - someone get me some fluff, quick! ;)**


	13. Dear Diary

Molly Hooper looks around the Morgue and finds it difficult to remember a time when it was so packed – with living bodies, anyway. FY2 Medical students from Bart`s school were crammed into the room, all gathered around Amanda, a 37 year old who had been found in a house fire; untouched by the flames, but succumbed to smoke inhalation. She had spoken to students many times, but nerves jangled in her chest, since one of this current class contained a certain Mary Elizabeth Watson, who missed absolutely nothing.

"Ah, so – er, Tim, how do the carbon dioxide levels in Amanda`s blood give us a heads up in understanding cause of death?"

"I, er – were they too high?"

"Yes, yes, there were high, but can anyone tell me why that is significant?"

Hesitant hands; Mary at the back, looking, face passive. _She_ bloody well knows, thinks Molly.

"Steven – at the back – Steven? What do you think?"

"If there was a lot of CO2, I would say she was alive when the fire had started – had to be alive to breath in those deadly fumes."

Molly was relieved.

"Good, Steven, good. Yes; if Amanda had died before the fire started, she wouldn't have breathed in the CO2 and it wouldn't have been found in her system. In order to establish COD, many factors have to be taken into consideration. As medical practitioners, you will be called upon as experts – no guessing, no estimating – only cold, hard facts are of any use in pathology. Speculation is left at the door."

Goodness me, thinks Mary Watson, standing at the back of the class; how lucky are these two, to be orbiting in each other`s universe. How absolutely amazing how they found each other.

**X**

Mary stays behind to `help` Molly tidy up before lunch (which they are taking together) and they push the unfortunate Amanda back into her drawer.

"I have seen more lively groups, Mary, and I work with dead people."

"Yeah, I think I may be embarrassing myself by being top of the class a few too many times. They all hope I`m gonna drop out after squeezing out this one – give `em all a fighting chance."

Molly laughs.

"God, you are awful."

"S`why you love me. Let`s get pizza – I am starving!"

The canteen pizza is actually quite decent, but Mary pours what is probably a weekly allowance of sodium on it anyway.

"Can`t help it – preggers. I must have a vice or two, Molly. Can`t drink, eat sushi or blue cheese or take meth. Got to have some fun."

"Did you – _want_ – to take meth, Mary?"

"No way, not after that time in El Paso – but , oh, maybe that`s better left unsaid. So, what about you? How`s things? The babies? Is Sherlock OK? Is he being a bit weird? Weirder?"

Molly`s head was spinning in the rapid machine gun fire of Mary`s conversation. She opts to answer the last question first, to save confusion.

"He`s good – happy John`s back – even resisted mocking Greg and his proposal; actually asked him questions about it and everything. We`ve all seen it, you know. Sherlock filmed it on his phone, since he seemed to know where, when and how it happened."

"Unusual for him to take such an interest, considering his views upon the state of matrimony."

"Isn`t it though? He does care very much for Seiga mind you – they have grown a lot closer lately, even though Sherlock would have resisted, just to spite Mycroft. He continues to believe the whole marriage thing is the triumph of optimism over good sense mind you, so no change there."

Mary chewed, thoughtfully as Molly continued.

"He`s been out quite a bit this week – got four cases on the go at the same time, and all of them involve leg-work. Spending quite a bit of time with Mycroft, actually, and his parents. God! – I hope no-one has died, cos that does seem a little weird…"

Mary smiles.

"Keep me posted," she says.

**X**

Extract from Molly Hooper`s diary:

Tuesday 3rd May

Hi there Diary, thought I`d neglected you for so long, I`d come back for a chat. It is a bit embarrassing, actually – people will think we`ve fallen out – but it`s not true! I love you just as much now as I ever did, and I am more than willing to share all of my deepest thoughts and musings with you.

Are we good? Brilliant!

Had a chat with Mary a few days ago, and it has got me thinking, Diary. Sherlock is the _Honorary Chief of the Weirdness Tribe_, but he is really going for it at the moment, and I`m beginning to become a little bit concerned. Diary, I know you`ll think I`ve been cheating on you with Sherlock (I have) but I am going to ask you to be a little bit more patient with me, as I am going to use some of his logical methods to list my observations:

Observation 1: Sherlock has been visiting/visited by his parents twice this week. Mycroft also attended. This may seem normal for many, but it isn't with the Holmes Clan (I was out both times), what gives?

Observation 2: Sherlock appears to be losing/hiding his laptop at intermittent intervals. Mine is on the blink, but whenever I ask to borrow his, he claims he can`t find it, or John has borrowed it, or it`s busy de-fragmenting itself, or something equally lame. The one time I did get it, he spent a while clearing his history – quite a long while. Whilst most people would think _porn_, I`m more inclined to think there are some very nasty murder/crime related things on there he doesn't want me to see. It must be bad, because he knows I have a very strong stomach and he usually loves sharing the gore with me.

Observation 3: He is obsessively composing something. Day and night, we can hear the same refrain echoing around the place. I don't really mind though – it is quite beautiful and the only thing that shuts up Viola when she`s particularly cross.

Observation 4: Mrs Hudson is being wildly indulgent of his bad habits. She is a very lovely and accommodating landlady anyway, but she recently has turned the blindest of eyes to his noise (see observation 3), small explosions (Skylab may need one wall re-painting) and unparalleled untidiness. Last night, one of the Homeless Network (Trig) had acquired a motorbike (don't ask, Diary) and Mrs Hudson allowed him to store it in the back yard, under a tarpaulin. Trig has since been `working on it` all day and bits of engine and oil are all over the yard. I went to apologise, and all she said was, "well, don't worry too much about it dear, Sherlock`s got a lot on his mind at the moment – I don't want to worry him." Honestly – Sally Donovan used to say he`d end up doing a murder, but at the moment, he`s getting away with it in Baker Street.

Observation 5: Sherlock has become obsessed with Benedict`s school project on global warming. Believe me, Diary, I would do plenty to encourage a father taking an interest in his son`s school work, but they`re down in the lab at every opportunity, freezing and melting blocks of ice. I know, I know, Diary – sweet, and something I`d like to share in. However, Ben has told me I am banished from Skylab when they are working – apparently, it is `_man`s work_` and `_for science, mummy_!` Very strange indeed.

Observation 6: Six already? Gosh, when I write them down, it does seem stranger by the minute, doesn't it? Well, my last observation, oh patient Diary, isn't really anything tangible. As such. Sherlock just seems edgy and tense. He is always a bit of a pacer or internal thinker, but at the moment, he paces constantly (and I know he`s smoking again) and isn't really sharing much with me at all. Oh Diary, I suppose most women would read this back and think - `_he`s seeing someone else_`, but this is Sherlock, and half the time I don't think he sees that we actually _are_ together … well, we _are_, obviously … but, you know … well that sounds the way that madness lies, but you _must_ know what I mean? (you and I do go way back after all, Diary) I just can`t imagine him doing that … or should I be worried? Lots of sofa sleeping and a distance between us … ? Gosh, Diary, maybe I _should_ be asking questions after all?

Watch this space …

**X**

_It was the step father – of course it was! He was the only person who had any access to the blue dye. That, and the total lack of adensosine triphosphate in the muscle meant the time of death was completely_ _– oh good lord!_ Sherlock`s heartbeat hitched up a notch as he rounded the bottom of the stairs of 221C – _someone _was in Skylab.

Molly was out running with the St. Bart`s Harriers, Mrs Hudson was at the cinema with Benedict and his mother (_some rubbish about penguins_) and John was at work – just use a process of elimination, Sherlock …

"Good afternoon Mary. How lovely to see you, and with all of your fingers intact, too."

"My fingers?"

"The absence of a text – a phone call – one would perhaps assume – "

Mary stands up from the lab stool (carefully, since she is a tad top heavy these days) and comes around the bench towards him. She`s ready for him and he knows it.

"Oh, you know we never assume, Sherlock – not in our game," and it`s Mary Morstan he is seeing now, even without her Black Ops and silencer.

"Sherlock," she is advancing, "do you have a plan?"

He is making show of arranging the ELISA plate, but she isn't fooled.

"I have several – one of them should, by now, have resulted in the arrest of Mr Jonathan Armitage – "

"So help me, Sherlock, you know exactly what I am referring to, so you need to answer – do you have a plan of how you are going to ask Molly Hooper to marry you? Besides hiding The Most Beautiful Ring in the World ™ in the toe of your Persian slipper alongside forty Bensons, that is?"

Sherlock Holmes has had almost forty years of playing poker face, and his considerable skills do not betray him now … if only it wasn't for that pesky tremor in his little finger as he empties the de-humidifier … the tiny bead of sweat on his upper lip … oh Mary, Mary, with the eyes of a sniper and the tenacity of an indignant friend.

"She thinks you`re acting more strangely than usual. She`s suspicious, Sherlock."

He tilts his head, the crinkle between his brown appearing.

"Impossible; there has been no deviation from my normal behaviour. You need to rest assured Mary, I have everything under control."

By now, she is level to him and invades his personal space without regret.

"Sherlock, sweetie – I love you, but you are going to need a plan – and maybe some kind of time scale?"

Sherlock has no choice but to meet her eyes, and his face remains as impassive as marble. She is so close, he can smell her almond oil (stretchmark avoidance? Aromatherapy wasn't always appropriate for pregnant women) and peppermint tea (hates it – adds loads of sugar). He is trying very hard to swim with the goldfish …

"Thank you, Mary, for your input. Everything will be fine. Trust me."

From the mouth of Sherlock Holmes, two more ominous words were never spoken.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: delays have been due to my internet provider falling by the wayside and declaring a `slight hitch` with it`s users connections - slight hitch! Good God - 48 hours is not a slight hitch! Hope this chapter posts ok!**

**Will Sherlock have a plan, or is he just screaming with panic inside? :)**


	14. Fusion

"When you discover an island that belongs to nobody, it is yours."

(The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery)

* * *

><p>I am wrapped around Molly Hooper as if she were the nucleus and I merely the cytoplasm of the cell. I am protecting, surrounding, holding her nucleaic glory and importance; both nurturing and saving her from barbs and arrows.<p>

Truthfully, there are precious few barbs and arrows in my bedroom in 221B; only the dawn`s early light filtering through poorly drawn curtains and illuminating us by a process of osmosis. A shaft of weak sunlight, glittering with dancing dust motes, falls across the incumbent form of Molly (lovely) and affords her chestnut hair a hazy, shimmering sheen – sparkling, glowing, _enchanting_ – a sleeping wood nymph or sprite, spread across my bed like a wish or a promise.

I love watching her like this, where the only conscious eyes are mine and I can drink her in without the knowledge or distraction of anyone bar myself. It is really like a precious gift, which I can store away for when days are grey, and long, and painful, and I can bring forth her loveliness to sustain me.

She is stirring, slowly, as if sensing me staring; I try to make the most of the next few moments before I must stow my thoughts away. In the beginning, I did know Molly Hooper, but our connection was a gradual awakening (_so like this one_) on a warm summer`s morning (_like this one_); so long I found myself in that half-awake state, where peripheral recognition was only just beginning to encroach. Back then, my biggest fear was lack of control (_honesty insists that it still mostly is_) – the observing, the deducing, the sharp, intense focus and filtering of everything else. Molly Hooper, however, was my seductress, my _coquette,_ my _Lorelei_; and from being nowhere, she was everywhere – filtering through to me like the sun through my curtains. As the layers of sleep fall away, bringing her back to me, I have to bury my face in her neck (the back of her hair entangles in my eyelashes, pulling me close – _siren_) and breath in her skin, her hair – she is strawberries, she is cream, she is the barest hint of chocolate – a dessert of my own making – a nucleus of confectionery. Delightful.

"Ssherlock," her voice, thick with sleep and shedding of night time murmurings. "Well, this – this is lovely."

I suspect it isn't _as _lovely for her, since her movements are restricted so, but I am not ready to release her yet.

"I never knew I was lonely, Molly," I say, and I feel (hear) her breathe in slowly, in the manner of the recently awake, but she is listening, and puts her hand up to touch me. I like her touch. I like it always.

"Didn't you?" Her small, oval fingertips circle my wrist and I close my eyes to appreciate the sensation all the more.

"No, certainly not. I was like a fish."

I feel her jaw muscles slide into a smile (a tiny `click` as her tongue leaves the roof of her mouth).

"A fish? How restricting for you, my darling."

"Indeed, since a fish can`t know it`s in the water, until it isn`t. I hadn`t an idea I was lonely, until I wasn't anymore."

"Until you had John – "

"John, you – always you. You`ve drowned me, Molly Hooper. I lie gasping on the shore line, waiting and hoping for your softness. I hope you are proud of yourself."

And she wrenches out of my _Kraken-esque_ grasp (as indeed she must) and turns to face me, nose to nose and eye to eye. She is so close I can see myself reflected back in her cornea – strange; exciting.

"I _am_ proud of myself, Sherlock, I am proud of being with you, here, now – for however long I can be. Do you know how absolutely amazing it is to be near you, to live alongside you and get dragged along in your bizarre and unpredictable world? You are like no-one I have ever met, or will ever meet – you are magical, incandescent, other-worldly – like a unicorn or something mythical – and I am sometimes afraid to let you out of my sight, just in case you disappear, in a puff of smoke. And you might, Sherlock – one day you just might."

And I smile, because anything more ridiculous I couldn't begin to imagine. Improbable, impossible, idiotic.

"_Heresy_, Molly Hooper, speak no more!" I command, and then I kiss her.

As you can see, I have everything under control.

**X**

Extract from Molly Hooper`s Diary

Friday 6th May

Hi there Diary, me again. Just a little update, seeing as we parted on such uncertain terms earlier this week:

Observation seven:

I have discovered, through observations and prior deduction, that I really do know and recognise the signs and symptoms of being hopelessly in love. No further data is needed at this time.

I`ll be back in touch soon, Diary, just don't wait up. X

**X**

`_Mummy, can you come down to Skylab. Love from Ben. x`_

Molly stares at her phone. No. _God, no!_ Her five year old son was texting her now? From _inside_ the house they both lived in? Why did this sound so horribly familiar (and how was his grammar and spelling so consummate)?

Ok, so …

_`Benedict, is Daddy with you?_ `

_`Of course he is. I am using his phone. Love Ben.`_

Hmm…

_`Are you doing the global warming experiments?`_

`_Yes. We are exploring fusion. Love Ben.`_

Exploring fusion?! !

_`P.S I am using voice activated texting. Daddy says to let you know. Love Ben.`_

Thank God. Kind of.

_`Am I allowed to see the `men`s work`, then?`_

_`Daddy says that you are essential to the investigation. Love Ben.`_

Oh, did he now? Molly threw the shopping into what she hoped were relevant cupboards, then grabbed Viola from her buggy (some kind of turbulence was brewing there, she anticipated) and took the stairs downward. Viola hated Tesco (like her father, actually) so heaven knows what she`d bought in the full seven minutes she`d had to go round.

Sherlock and Ben were rigged up in their investigation ensembles (Sherlock had added ridiculous gauntlet style gloves which were totally unnecessary as mockery for Molly`s perfectly reasonable safety requirements) and both looked a little mad – Dr Frankenstein and his replicated tiny assistant.

"Ah, Molly, just in time. Ben is recording the readings of the heat loss. Don't forget, Ben, that energy is absorbed from the warmth of the water used."

"I wrote that down on the whiteboard, Daddy."

"More than good. Excellent, in fact."

"You two seem to have everything under control – what use can I possibly be? With all the secrecy, I thought you might have had a creature down here, with electrodes attached."

Benedict, writing very carefully, looks up, eyes wide.

"You mother is advocating that our time has been spent re-animating stitched together body p – "

"Sherlock."

"Another time, perhaps." He pulls up his goggles and places his callipers down on the bench. The scorch mark was still clearly visible behind his head and Molly wondered, for the seventeenth time, if a lick of paint was going to be enough. She jiggles Viola, in an attempt to stave of the inevitable grumblings.

"I actually – er – wanted to ask a favour from you, Molly."

The look on his face was actually – a little bit uncomfortable – tremulous and unsure. How very unusual. The many times in the past that Sherlock Holmes had asked her for `favours` (_access to bodies, parts of bodies, data on bodies – you get the picture_), he had been bold, arrogant and with a haughty side of entitlement. None of this was in evidence at this moment in time.

Curious.

"Please Viola, food soon, I promise – Sherlock, is it a science thing? A body thing? Are you hungry? I bought some stuff at Tesco, but am not quite sure a meal can be assembled from it. Unless you like anchovies coated with Piccalilli – "

Sherlock almost recoils. Come to think of it, he does look a little green around the gills.

"Are you ill, my favourite unicorn? You look – queasy."

"Call me that again, Molly, and I _will_ be queasy. No – could you sit down here, a moment please – I am dizzy watching your jiggling."

Jiggling? Oh, he was just – _gorgeous._

Molly obliges, smiling at Ben as he places another ice brick into a saline solution and closes its lid. The focus on his face as he holds tight on the oversized callipers is just –

"Molly, I may need your help, on a case – "

Oooh! Exciting. Or possibly quite dull, depending on –

"What do I have to do?"

Sherlock blinks a couple of times, taken aback by her directness.

"You – er – it`s a forgery case … all hinges on whether the suspect can dance or not. There`s going to be a ball – "

"Are we spying?"

"No – o. We are guests – undercover if you will."

"Ooh! A disguise! Will I need one?" She jiggles a grizzly Viola, then considers. "Shouldn't you ask John, really? I mean, you two maybe need to do a few more cases together – bonding and such-like… he loves it when – "

"No." Sherlock is actually holding up a hand to stop her. He definitely looks peaky – very pale.

"No, Molly, you are insufferably punctuative tonight."

Awkward pause.

"I can`t take John. Not because he`s being blackmailed by an criminal mastermind with familial aspirations, but because it`s … it`s more of a man/woman … thing."

"Oh! We have to be a couple? I could be your plus one? Your dance partner."

"Ah, no, I mean – well, yes, you could, but – "

_Oh dear, Sherlock. Words are not your friends tonight_. Just then, however, Benedict appears to save his father from further conversational inadequacies via an important scientific discovery.

"Daddy, Mummy, do look – the salt water has been really good on _Ice Sample 17_! Look it`s nearly all gone in less than – forty three minutes!"

They all crowd around _Sample 17_ and Molly sees a brick no longer, but a very small ice cube, seeming to contain a small object – a flower? No, not this time, but she can't quite see …

"Fetch the callipers, Daddy, and we can take it out now."

"I actually think, Ben, that Mummy should take this one out."

He takes whingey Viola from her arms (who immediately stops whinging – naturally) whilst Ben hands her the callipers.

"You do it, Mummy – take it out and we can weigh it, but you have to be very careful not to compr – not to break it."

Molly looks closer (her glasses are upstairs, of course) and squints at the ice cube. The callipers are new and effective and she manages to grasp it first time, and holds it closer – much closer…

Is that ..? What IS that? She squints.

"Sherlock, that isn't a flower head, is it?"

"Mmm – no, it isn't."

She holds the cube up to the light, melting water dripping down the callipers and down her sleeve; she barely registers the icy water as she looks hard into the translucent, distorted ice walls of the cube, into its crystalline depths –

"Oh!"

She drops everything in that moment – callipers, ice cube and melted water crash, splash and break onto the granite workbench and there it lies …

"Oh."

Facets of almost _iridescent_ light, radiating from a large and flawless diamond. 3.5 Carats, at the very least; a double-cut brilliant with seventeen facets on the crown … a Mazarin stone, set in a ring of gold and glittering silently, still frozen in time, awaiting its fate – its next journey.

"Mummy! It`s treasure! It`s pirate treasure! Daddy told me that someone probably got their _gizzard _cut – "

A look from his father tells Ben _another time perhaps …_

"Sherlock – what?!"

"For the case – we need to appear authentic – "

"This was frozen in the ice? Is it real?" Molly`s brain has crashed and re-booting is proving troublesome.

"We need to be husband and – wife."

"For the case?"

"It needs to have integrity … you should wear it – I can`t risk being found out, Molly Hooper."

Press _Ctrl-alt-delete_, Molly… she turns to him and smiles, holding out her left hand.

"Put it on me – I need to see if it fits."

Sherlock balances Viola on one hip, picks up Lady Violet Hunter`s beautiful pirate treasure and slips it onto her third finger. Of course it fits – he`d made sure of it.

And it glitters on her finger with a thousand tiny rainbows reflecting up into her eyes and onto her lovely face and Sherlock feels that his heart is going to stop – but it doesn`t, and she says:

"Then we must try and look as – legitimate as possible, for the case."

(_ohgodohgodohgodohgod_)

Molly tilts her hand, left and right, then raises it up high, as if conducting an imaginary orchestra; then she looks across at Sherlock (deathly pale, now with additional hectic pink spots on his cheeks).

"I think this case is going to be very important."

"I think it could be the turning point of my entire career – _revision_ – my entire life, Doctor Hooper."

"This could be a pivotal moment – for crime and – er – for science."

"Ah, Molly – science is fine, but it merely serves to tell us just how much we don't know – _this case_ could tell us everything we will ever need to know, and give us everything we ever want to have."

Molly lowers her hand, showing Ben and holding it in front of Viola for good measure. Both appear to approve, which was very nice.

"It really is quite authentic – people may be convinced," she smiles. She can`t physically seem to stop.

Sherlock looks at her – deeply into her eyes, and takes a step nearer until they are almost touching. His voice is low and resonant, like velvet over gravel:

"You may also need to sign some papers," he says.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: It`s Sherlock - he would probably not be able to say the traditional words!**


	15. A Particular Announcement

**John Watson Blogs:**

Well, thanks to everyone who has welcomed me back with their fantastic comments. I can`t quite tell you how much I`ve missed the Blog and everyone involved in it, really … you guys …

Anyway, I have a very special and, one might say, _incredible_ post for you this evening, one which I am extremely proud and ecstatically happy to share with all of our followers. Last night, something happened which would put the discovery of the Yeti, riding on the back of the Loch Ness Monster, all the way down to see the lost city of Atlantis in the shade.

My friend, Sherlock Holmes, has always portrayed himself as the man without a heart, an automaton who only lives for the puzzle, the conundrum, the solving of the crime. Any romantic notions he has always decried as `the grit upon the lens` which distract a person from the science of observation and deduction. The softer passions? Not for him. Love? A game for weak-willed, slobbering ninnies, who have nothing else to justify their sad little lives; a chemical defect, found in the losing side.

Yes, Sherlock, but then, how do you explain _this_:

_Mr and Mrs V R Holmes would like to announce the engagement of their_

_son, William Sherlock Scott Holmes to Molly Jane Hooper, daughter of_

_the late Mr R K Cooper and Mrs J E Hooper. Both family and friends would_

_like to offer their congratulations and most joyful wishes._

which is being published in _The Times_, as I post this.

I think this proves, my faithful readers, that even men of the highest intellect and most monumental genius are just like the rest of us when they find the other part of themselves; they embrace it, they take it and they (_if they`ve got any sense_) make it their own. I have never doubted Sherlock`s genius, although I have sometimes questioned his decision-making processes. I can now safely say, that this is the least doubtful of all the decisions he has ever made, and my own heart actually smiles when I think of how he and Molly love each other. I would now just take this opportunity to say, I`ve loved you both apart, but I love you together even more, and a gargantuan congratulations from myself and my own family.

**Comments: (42)**

**G Lestrade: **bloody hell … just … (brb)

**Mary Watson: **Well said, lovely husband – I am still in a state of shock (although I`ve known it was coming, Sherlock!)

**Harry Watson**: Yeah, very funny guys – this has to be a joke, right?

**JHW**: No joke, Harry

**G Lestrade**: still can`t quite believe it – are you sure?

**Harry Watson**: the only reason Sherlock Holmes would need a wife would be to experiment on

**JHW**: Harry, I have warned you what would happen if you do this again …

**Harry Watson**: Ok, ok – good luck Molly, anyway

**M Hudson**: Ooh! A wedding!

**Mary Watson**: Oh yes! Huge meringue dresses, five tiered cakes, page boys, horse and carriages, speeches …!

**Sherlock Holmes**: No.

**M Hudson**: Oh, Sherlock! Every girl dreams of her wedding day. Mr Hudson and I had flamingos at ours …

**Sherlock Holmes**: Not this girl, I presume to assure you.

**Molly H**: Thank you John for the lovely message, and sorry, Mrs Hudson, Mary – I second that declinature – no (thanks)

**Sherlock Holmes**: oh, impressive synonym, Molly Hooper. I can clearly see that my choice of bride was an excellent one.

**Molly H**: I heartily concur

**Sherlock Holmes**: temptress

**JHW**: Hey, you two! This is supposed to be _about_ you, not dominated by your secret language – step aside and allow the congratulations to wash over you!

**Molly H**: sorry, John.

**G Lestrade**: God Sherlock, I can`t believe it – I had no idea

**Sherlock Holmes**: Of course you didn't.

**G Lestrade**: But you knew all about _my_ proposal! You even filmed it, you tosser!

**Sherlock Holmes**: It was written all over your face (but mostly your left shirt cuff and weakened pocket seam)

**Mike Stamford**: Heartiest congratulations from myself and the missus – and everyone at St. Barts.

**Molly H**: thanks Mike, from us both

**Sherlock Holmes**: so efficient, Molly

**M Hudson**: well, if we don't have a party of some kind, there`s definitely something wrong with the world. Marriage changes you, Sherlock – it needs celebrating

**Mary Watson**: seconded, Hudders

**CTH**: Amazing news! I knew you two couldn't be anything else but happy. Love from Robin too xxx

**Sally Donovan**: Did I just read that right? Hope you`re going to find a proper job when you`re married Sherlock!

**Sherlock Holmes**: Criminals would be running amok around the streets, anarchy would reside in the UK and England would definitely fall if I left you all to your own devices, Sally.

**Sally Donovan**: well! Big up yourself, Sherlock!

**Sherlock Holmes**: Naturally.

**P Anderson**: Congratulations Sherlock and Molly – happy to hear of you two, so soon after Seiga and Greg

**Sally Donovan**: Yeah, Phillip, some men know when they`ve got a good thing going.

**JHW**: Good luck with that, Anderson!

**When_i_say_run**: I have seen something of Dr Hooper`s work – it seems brainy _is_ the new sexy. How lovely that you have let your heart rule your head – congratulations to the happy couple.

**Yellow_ribbon_girl**: grattis härliga människor - hur glada vi är!

**Sally Donovan**: what can you mean, John Watson?

**JHW**: Ok, everyone – time to disable these comments for now. Guys – PM me (you know who you are) – let`s just feel the love tonight and cuddle up with someone you love on this miraculous day.

**Sherlock Holmes**: It isn`t the Second Coming, John.

**JHW**: almost.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: CTH - Captain Thorneycroft Huxtable was helped by Sherlock in `When Sherlock Met the Other One` and has since become friends with him and John. His husband is called Robin.**

**grattis härliga människor - hur glada vi är! - Congratulations, lovely people - how happy we all are!**

**I had actually written this before the Benedict/Sophie engagement - strange, but true!**

**Morgen - thank you so much for lovely comments - I wish my life had that level of romance in it too! :)**


	16. Secrets, Lies and Cable Ties

Dear me, Molly was not going to like this.

Sherlock felt the van corner tightly and he shifted across the floor slightly, unable to steady himself since cable ties bound his hands tightly behind his back. A gloved hand held his shoulder to prevent further slippage, and the van righted itself, changing up the gears. The floor was ridged and smelt of spilt petrol. Fortunately, a sensitive soul had laid down a rough blanket which gave a sparse barrier between his chest and the ridges – thin, but it was better than nothing. Sherlock`s breathing came hard, and he made a conscious effort to calm down. An overload of adrenaline was not going to help him now, and he needed to think.

The last turn since the park had meant they were now on Northbrook Road, which should turn into Belgrave Road if no further turns were made in the next five minutes. Harsh hands catch Sherlock beneath his arms and haul him up right, pushing him onto a seat. A further (more solicitous) hand pulls a seatbelt across his chest and pushes it home. They were turning left onto Tower Hill – Sherlock could see nothing from beneath the hood – its fibres were soft and fabric conditioned – unusual in a kidnapping, but he was increasingly grateful of small mercies.

Ilford – Valentine`s Park. A man was supposed to have emerged from the bushes, brandishing a gun and demanding the rights to his topaz mine in Puerto Rica. The case had sounded so interesting when John had described it – incensed Latino, married a British woman and decided her daughter was the better bet, due to the newly discovered polydactylism from her sister`s side. It all made such perfect sense until he felt a shove to the ground, a bag over the head and a tether around the wrists. The A100 to Tower Hill … Sherlock knew exactly where he was and was more than confident that his kidnappers were less than familiar with his understanding of the mapping of London. Within a mile or so, they should be on the Blackfriar`s Underpass, via Lower Thames Street, if he wasn't mistaken. The speed was currently around forty five miles per hour which would rack up to sixty once they hit the underpass; Sherlock steadied his position by widening his footing and bracing his back against the seat. There were two men in the back of the van with him – one was perspiring quite heavily and had slightly adenoidal issues ; the other had been sucking mint imperials (ugh) and wore a faint odour of Givenchy after shave (the type often worn by Greg Lestrade when his main after-work interests had included luring a potential mate down to the pub). Sherlock shuddered – how fortuitous _that_ choice of activity was now redundant.

A right turn onto Northumberland Avenue and the van had slowed considerably – roadworks, judging by the roughness of the current stretch of road – even kidnappers were not immune to the constant blight of the orange traffic cone. Whispers could now be heard from his two abductors – slightly sibilant S`s from mint imperial man – and the roughness of a hand drawn across facial hair … they were probably surprised he was completely mute; he wasn't about to start blathering or pleading. Let them wonder what he was thinking. Calmness and control was everything, and John Watson would probably have the number plate – sharp soldiers eyes and quick wits had meant he got clean away (one had to hope – the alternative wasn't even on Sherlock`s agenda), oh well done, John.

Roundabout – first, second, third exit – that meant Trafalgar Square. From Ilford to Central London? A bold move. Were they – yes, they were – heading towards Pall Mall. Sherlock fervently hoped they weren`t heading towards the Brazilian Embassy – that case with the Bolas had not been forgotten by the Ambassador… Waterloo Place? _Oh good God – please_ –

"No!"

The word was involuntarily flung from his mouth before he could think. Sherlock attempted to stand, but the seatbelt and a firm hand pushed him back down.

He knew where they were taking him, and he knew why.

And Sherlock Holmes sits, blind, cable-tied and helpless, the spiking adrenaline of unbridled fear twisting his guts and breaking him out in cold sweats. God, oh god, why had he not been more vigilant? He was obviously so high and unfettered at the moment, his lizard brain had taken a little holiday and they had blind-sided him. The van had turned into a compound of some kind (gravel) and was slowing right down. Sherlock did know the compound and he knew the building it lay at the rear of. _Too late, Sherlock, too late_. If he still had his phone he would send a text – he would text Molly Hooper (_this is my note – I am sorry Molly, I allowed it to happen …_)

Rough hands undo the seat belt and pull him to his feet. He hears the van doors opening and the cool rush of evening air hits – his face is boiling beneath the hood and three different escape methods run through his head – but it was no use; they would track him down and they would bring him back. They were relentless, determined, ruthless, resolute – they would never give up. A hand helps Sherlock step from the van (well they wouldn't want to damage the merchandise at this point) and another reaches and pulls the hood from his head.

"When I say stay – _stay_, Sherlock," comes Gregory Lestrade`s voice from the mouth of mint imperial man, but Sherlock knows he will not flee.

He is resigned.

"Welcome to your Stag night," smirks Anderson, cutting the cable ties, then standing well clear, just in case his captor decided to retaliate with a punch to his bearded jaw.

**X**

The high-ceilinged, chandeliered, gold-leafed private function room of the Diogenes Club was entered through two, large carved wooden doors, embellished with curling dragons and unicorns (`_my favourite unicorn`_). Behind these doors, a small but merry band of revelers had congregated, determined in their mission. As Lestrade and Anderson throw them open, a hearty cheer goes up from said revelers, and glittering crystal glasses of fine malt are raised in salute as Sherlock steps through.

Mike Stamford, Thorneycroft Huxtable and his husband Robin, Bill Wiggins, Harry Watson (!) and Vernet Holmes, Sherlock`s father were all sitting around what looked like a card table and grinning like idiots. Several, including Harry, were smoking fat Havana cigars. Sherlock suddenly feels a firm slap to his shoulder and turns to look into the treacherous face of John Hamish Watson, who had clearly been laughing his arse off.

"You will be smote by the gods of friendship and loyalty for this grossest of deeds, John Watson."

John laughs some more.

"You`d never have agreed to it, and I had to do a better job than you did for mine. No fights in gay bars and NO beer in measuring cylinders, ta very much."

And John pushes his reluctant Stag into the room, where someone pushes a drink in his hand and another stuffs a cigar in his breast pocket.

"You _lured_ me, John Watson."

"You`ve always – er –complimented me on my little literary flourishes, so I thought I`d use them to make up a case entirely from scratch for you to have a go at. Six fingered South American topaz thieves ? Really, Sherlock, love has got you in a bit of a tizz."

"You have taken advantage of my implicit trust in you."

"Ah, just sit down and have a drink. We`re just playing cards until the strippers arrive."

And the newly _sassed-up_ John Watson leads his best friend towards the action, but Sherlock (who has deleted that last comment due to an over-heated mind palace) has one more question.

"If Lestrade and Anderson were in the back of the van with me, may I ask who was driving?"

"You may," came the dryly smug tones of Mycroft Holmes, from behind them.

"And rest assured, little brother," he adds, peeling off his driving gloves, "it was an absolute pleasure."

**X**

It is only nine o`clock and I feel I have been here for millennia. Several millennia. Thrillingly, everyone else appears to be having a splendid time, drinking, smoking (mmm) and gambling under the auspices of my `Stag` night. Truth be told, I should have been alerted to such a ruse as this since tonight, my betrothed has been frog-marched along to her place of work in order to be subjected to a similar fate. A `hen-do` as Mary so picturesquely put it. Since we have both eschewed any form of wedding idiocy for the (short, civil) ceremony tomorrow, Molly Hooper surely felt unable to refuse them a little fun. I suspect she is regretting it already if my own affair is anything to go by. Although Harry Watson assures me that she has `apple tea` in her whisky glass (she clearly thinks I have been born without an olfactory system), she has been unusually effusive and embarrassingly `chummy` with me this evening. John says he has `_had words_` with her and `_put her right_` on a few issues, so perhaps I am being a tad uncharitable in assigning her change of character to whisky.

I wander into a small bar at the end of the corridor – this place has more hidden rooms than Glamis Castle – where a lone barman polishes a glass behind the mahogany, brass-fitted bar. Everything is so grand and overdone here – how very `Mycroft`. I glance around the virtually empty room and recall Mycroft bringing a potential case to my attention. At the time I was disinterested in the leak in security at this fossilised and almost ritualistically secretive establishment. It seems that such rumours have resulted in a depletion in ranks of the high-ranking members usually inhabiting these rooms. They are simply staying away – at least away from the `open bar` rooms, where speaking is allowed.

The barman furnishes me with a glass and arranges three decanters of single malt whiskys (one whiskey) on the bar for me to choose from. In here, no-one else pours your drink – trust is difficult to win where power is your currency, and secrets are sacrosanct. He places the glass down without a coaster and is immediately contrite.

"Apologies, sir, I am so sorry – it is my first evening working here. Many bar staff have left recently and I am afraid I may be prone to mistakes being so new."

Although I find such obsequious behaviour slightly irritating, I manage to keep my counsel, and I confess that my interest is piqued.

"Would this date from the recent spate of – _unfortunate incidents_?" There is no way he couldn't know of them – the tabloids have been vastly enjoying tales of `_toffs in trouble_`.

"It would sir – oh dear, I may have forgotten to bring the spare bar towels from the storeroom – please excuse me sir…"

And the tremulous fellow repairs away to put right his imagined wrongs whilst I decide to take a closer look at the decanters and the silver tray on which they reside. Hmm – how fortunate I am never without my lens … intricate design, but the carving strangely altered towards the bottom of the tray …

I remove the tiny microphone from the decanter tray and stick it in my pocket, musing on how such a miniscule object could cause such catastrophic panic in the halls of power of this great country of ours. Bugging decanters for state secrets? How audacious, in an environment such as this one.

"Hello Sherlock. Is all this a little too much for you?"

I look up to see the porcelain and impassive face of Anthea, my brother`s favourite lackey (_does she ever go home? Does she have a home? Perhaps she lives here?_).

I gesture to the imposing winged back Chesterfield next to me (overblown, like I said before) and she smiles that sphinx like smile of hers before sitting. I pass her a _Glenmorangie_ – she looks the type.

"A little." I have decided against artifice. I am, despite my current location, disgracefully and abundantly happy. So definite is my joy at marrying Molly Hooper tomorrow, that I could almost put out a hand and capture it between my fingers; tangible, all-encompassing.

I look at Anthea and cannot decide what is different about her (although there is definitely something – I know it). She sips her drink, looking at me from beneath large, sweeping lashes. I decide that she is coldly beautiful – an impregnable ice fortress.

"I hear you are getting married tomorrow – congratulations."

"Thank you – come along." My fiancée and myself have no guest list, as tradition decrees – we ask whosoever we feel like at the time. My mother is finding this quite stressful, it seems.

She looks down, serenely shaking her head. "I will be working," she adds, unsurprisingly, and I sit back in my chair, leaning into one of its wings and rest my chin between my thumb and forefinger, regarding her.

"What a very diverse and interesting job description you must have," I counter, suddenly realising what is different …

… she isn`t texting.

**X**

Mycroft Holmes is walking through the silent marbled corridors of the Diogenes Club, wondering why it is he is so often finding himself in this familiar position:

Looking for Sherlock.

Out of the silence there is a sudden and unfamiliar rupture of sound – a peal of laughter? How very unusual, but Mycroft deigned to follow the sound, since where lay the unusual, usually lay his brother.

Sure enough, turning into one of the open bar rooms, he sees Sherlock arranged elegantly in a winged armchair opposite another chair, inhabited by another –

Well, now _here_ was unusual.

Upon seeing her boss, Anthea (who is just as elegantly arranged as Sherlock) doesn't flicker, apart from a slight inclination of the head.

"I see you have found our reluctant guest of honour," purrs Mycroft, serenely. "How charming to see him – _mingling_ – at last."

Sherlock stands, giving his brother the full beam of his archest smile.

"It really has been charming, Mycroft; I really do feel I know you better these days."

Mycroft glances at his brother and his assistant; assured, of course, of her discretion, but with Sherlock, nothing was ever completely certain.

_Damn him._

"Thank you so much for my lovely party, but I will be leaving now, since I no longer wish to remain."

"Indeed – it _is _your wedding day tomorrow."

Sherlock smiles, this time without any hint of mischief; possibly one of the rarest sights Mycroft has witnessed.

"Yes, and I can`t remotely imagine why I am still here when Molly Hooper is not. Will we see you tomorrow, Mycroft? I am wondering why you are lingering – are there some fraternal last minute words of wisdom you are waiting to impart? I think we are safely assured I am not afraid of sex, if you were still worried."

Mycroft inclines his head, regarding his brother, and a strange looks ghosts across his features. _Sherlock. William. Will_. Crying hot, ragged tears when his dog was put down; withdrawing into himself during his mother`s intermittent depressive moods; black-eyed and bloody-nosed from _disagreements_ with his less than tolerant peers; his endless, late night and exhaustive `treatises` and data-bases on insects, dust-types, leaf mold and skin oils; his hollow-eyed, malnourished descents into stimulants during late teens; endless months and years – stretching ahead, of distress, worry, spying, prying and waiting to hear the worst … _the private life of Sherlock Holmes_ passes through his brother`s mind palace in a matter of moments, but the emotions he has always repressed are still as fresh as the scent of cigar smoke in the air.

A small, tight, but nonetheless real smile takes his mouth, and it too is genuine.

"I have no advice for you, Sherlock, as I know you are intelligent enough to realise how very lucky you are. I could not be more overjoyed that you have ignored my previous advice, regarding caring. I imagined that was my gift to you at the time, but we both know those words were hollow."

Sherlock holds his brother`s glance for a moment before giving an almost imperceptible nod.

"A day of giving and receiving – and I actually have a _gift_ for _you_, Mycroft," he says, delving into a pocket.

"In the future, a more careful interview and screening may avoid employing bar staff who could be selling your secret wafflings to the highest bidder. It seems your last glass polisher has funded a yacht in the Maldives and a bottle shaped swimming pool from his placing of these little devices around your club."

Mycroft holds the tiny device up to the light for a few moments before passing it to Anthea, who takes it before disappearing, like ether.

"Thank you Sherlock. The over-privileged men of Whitehall remain forever in your debt."

Sherlock is already walking through the ornate doors as he looks over his shoulder at his elder brother.

"I`ll be counting on it," he says, with the ghost of a wink.

And he is gone.


	17. Molly Hooper has a Hen Party

Sally Donovan slumps heavily into a deckchair, her lei garlands askew and her eyes slightly unfocused. She dimly realises there is probably very little chance of her getting back out of it without a struggle. She also wears an adorable red flower amongst her black curls and a dubious grass skirt about her slender hips. It is an altogether eclectic look that says `_Honolulu Hobo_`.

"You know," she says, to no-one in particular, "men are _shit_. I am gonna replace my heart with another liver, just so that I can drink more and – and feel _less_!"

"That`s nice dear," replies Martha Hudson, sitting in an adjacent deckchair, holding onto a coconut shell full of Mai-tai. "But I wouldn't try to discourage Molly too much – it is her hen party, you know."

"Sssherlock," slurs Sally, shaking her head and causing the flower to bob precariously, "I cannot _believe_ he is getting married before I am."

And she puts down her coconut shell and decides she`s had more than enough for one night.

**X**

"Does it feel funny, being up here? Have we made a _humungous_ mistake using the site of your soon-to-be husband`s fake suicide as the venue for your hen night?"

Mary Watson stares balefully into Molly`s dark brown eyes with an air of locking the stable door after the horse has bolted. They both lean against the balustrade (probably the very one Sherlock stood on when speaking to John that terrible day) and contemplate how time has soothed and newer events have healed all that.

"You`re a bunch of unfeeling beasts, and I shall be sobbing into my pillow all night, and requiring some serious make up to smooth my ravaged face for the ceremony tomorrow." Molly sucks up her _Malibu and pineapple_ until the cherries block the straw. "Honestly though, Mary – the Hawaiian theme is probably more difficult to cope with than my memories of _Reichenbach_ – who on earth thought of – oh, hi there Joanne! Just loving the Tikki bar over there!"

Molly`s morgue friends were waving from the makeshift bar in the corner of Bart`s rooftop. If Mike had any idea of how many health and safety regulations were being broken that evening, he was not letting on. How they`d got a potted palm tree up in the lift, she was quite interested to find out, not to mention the huge wall hanging of a sunset that was incongruously draped across a drab brick wall and provided odd contrast to the London skyline.

Oh, and the fairy lights. In the shape of pineapples.

"Ah, you hate it!" Mary is drinking virgin Mai tai`s, and not exactly loving it either.

Molly reaches across and finds her friend`s Lei to give it a comradely tug.

"Hey, don`t be a nutter – it`s fine – pretty harmless considering what I was half expecting." Was she imagining things, or was Mary looking a little – shifty? "Oh God – you`ve planned something haven`t you? Oh … please, no stripper … "

At that moment, the tiny flower fairy/pixie girl who was Seiga came running up, dripping flowers and garlands and carrying a sheaf of papers.

"Hej, Molly – want to play a game?"

The general flavour of the evening gave Molly nothing but a bubbling feeling of dread and a yearning for a little game of … murder.

**X**

Miriam Holmes, looking resplendent in billowing florals and a startling hibiscus headband, peers over her pince-nez glasses at the questions before her, then at her soon to be daughter in law, who was experiencing a certain type of hell she hadn`t had for many a year.

The game was based on a dubious 70`s TV quiz show, and basically boiled down to the title of: `_How well do I know Sherlock Holmes_?`

"I am well aware, Molly, that my son is quite the _enigma_, however, I suspect you have had ample time to secure the machinations of his mind as well as his heart, so on we go … question number one: how does Sherlock take his coffee? (a) black, no sugars (b) black, two sugars (c) white, one sugar or (d) he now makes MY coffee … "

This quiz had the Watson`s dabs all over it …

Time seemed to have defied any laws of physics and decided to stand still as the next three questions were dredged painfully through, until –

" – and finally," continued _Miriam the Merciless_, "the question that could make all the difference … which of these body parts has Sherlock _not_ requested from you over the years? (a) a head (b) thumbs (c) a full spinal column (d) a heart …

Yeah, thinks Molly, wondering if a knotted together Lei`s would be strong enough to take her over the edge and down to ground level; Sherlock Holmes had that heart from me on day one.

_Ruined_, and no mistake.

**X**

The endless night wore on, and more of Molly`s (and Mary`s) colleagues came up to join them on the rooftop as their shifts ended, and their yearning for a luau became all-pervasive.

"Oh my God," whispered Sarah Gnezere (morgue assistant) at one point, "Sanderson is wearing a Hawaiian shirt – this is going on _Instagram_!"

Molly glanced up to catch the unwelcome, yet car-crash transfixing sight of the morgue`s most miserable (and incompetent) pathologist hula-ing to a ukulele version of `Somewhere over the Rainbow`… that one`s gonna stay with you.

Suddenly, time has eclipsed yet again, and she is in the midst of a circle of people, listening to a selection of phrases and deciding whether they are true or false (_this is the way that madness lies, I tell you_)…

"Ok, ok Moll – you ready for this one – " Mary Watson has regained some vigour, despite her cock-eyed headdress and odd grass skirt/pregnancy bump combo.

"`_Some silence right now would be marvellous_!` - Sherlock said this, true or false?"

Oh this game could run and run. The answer could only be –

"True."

"Cor-rect! Next one - `_The investigation might move a bit quicker if you take my word as gospel_.`"

Hint was in the wording there – "true, of course."

"So far, six out of six – what about this one: `_Low self esteem, tiny IQ and a low life expectancy and you think he`s an audacious criminal mastermind?_` Think carefully Molly – "

God, this was just – "true."

Hmm, reflected Molly Hooper, it was just as well John Watson and his notebook were not privy to some of the things Sherlock said to _her_ when they were alone. Now that would be a very interesting game indeed.

**X**

Just as Sanderson and Donovan begin to lead the conga around the deck chairs (_Mrs Hudson? Quite the mover_), Molly sinks down behind the palm pot like a fugitive from the law and huddles over her phone in the manner of a meth addict with a pipe.

`_I have been abducted – don't worry, they will pay. SH_`

Oh my God …

`_Diogenes Club needs new furnishings – something less than two hundred years old. SH`_

Oh.

`_John Watson is a treacherous creature who is, of this moment, struck from the (non-existent) guest list. See to it. SH_`

Molly starts to smile, scrolling further.

`_Harry Watson wants us to be friends. I pointed out I didn't have friends. She failed to accept this. SH`_

`_HW quite insistent. I have distracted her by winning £140 from her in poker (yes, I will give it back – caring can be most unprofitable, however). SH`_

_`Bored. SH`_

_`Indifferent. SH`_

_`Disentranced. SH`_

_`Solved case. Elementary. Bored again. SH`_

Oh, Sherlock, I do love you.

Just that second, a new alert pings and she opens his latest missive.

_`I need you. Come, if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. I need to hold you to replenish my endorphins – they are dangerously low, and I could fail before tomorrow comes. Baker Street, 50 minutes. SH`_

Molly glanced around, just in time to see that a huge screen and projector had miraculously appeared from nowhere, and the YouTube video of Sherlock in `_the purple shirt of sex_` was loading.

Why was she here? She had the real thing fifty minutes away.

Molly Hooper checked her watch.

She could probably make it in thirty.

**X**

Greg Lestrade, his tie around his head and sleeves rolled (obviously been playing the drinking game `_The Beerhunter_`) rounds the corridor, almost colliding with Mycroft Holmes.

"Thank God, Mycroft – it`s Sherlock – he`s given us the slip!"

His eyes are wide with the exaggerated concerns of the moderately inebriated, and instead of being repulsed; Mycroft finds a little empathy from deep within his heart.

"Fear not, Inspector – "

"Greg!"

" – Lestrade, Sherlock has played along admirably, but he needed to return home."

The eyes become slightly wider, and Greg places a hand on his future brother in law`s immaculately tailored arm.

"A case? Does he need any back up?"

Mycroft discreetly removes the arm and delicately pats the Detective Inspector on the shoulder, turning him back towards the party room.

"No case, I`m extremely pleased to note – more a time to re-group before tomorrow. No matter how my brother has played this down, it is going to be a very big day for him; for us all. Now, lets us repair for one more hour at the poker tables and attempt to win a little money back from my father, if possible."

And so they do.

**X**

"Mary, I have searched everywhere I thought she could be – she definitely hasn't been for ice; no-one saw her anywhere near the freezers."

"No-one saw her in the toilets either; do you think we should ring the police?"

"Perhaps it wouldn't do any harm – I just keep thinking, if anything happened to her, Sherlock would never forgive us …"

"Oh, for goodness sake you two – "

Seiga and Mary whipped around to see a lei-laden landlady, offering them a reproving glare.

" – I think you two rather tend to overdo the drama sometimes. Not everything is a crime, you know!"

"We just – "

Martha Hudson interrupts again, with a confident headshake.

"Molly has gone back home, she texted me."

"I hope she isn`t upset – I knew this venue was a bad idea! Should we text Sherlock?"

"No dear, I`m quite sure he already knows."

**X**

Lights are off and curtains are open in 221A Baker Street. Pale moonlight has glamoured the room with a cool, white coating, like scattered sugar, and it highlights the prone, slender torso of Sherlock Holmes, half wrapped in a white sheet and half wrapped in a brown eyed pathologist. He breathes deeply and her head rises and falls with his chest, where her silken hair caresses him like soft fingers.

"You mustn`t see me tonight," whispers Molly Hooper into the silence.

"I had my eyes closed the entire time," he returns, evenly.

"It`s tradition," she adds, smiling into the darkness.

"In which universe," counters Sherlock, eyes still closed, "would my eyeballs be discouraged from finding the eloquent and devastating tableau that is Molly Hooper? Your endorphins have resurrected me from an evening of torture which would have put the Serbians to shame."

"Hyperbole abuser."

"Cultural slave."

"Endorphin thief."

A low rumble she feels beneath her head tells her he is – laughing.

"You are _laughing_ – are you _giddy_, Sherlock?"

"Truly, I do believe I am. I fear an endorphin overdose has occurred, Molly Hooper, and I am blaming you."

"And I am blaming _you_ for spoiling my wedding night tomorrow by having it tonight, foul ravisher."

"Unbearable lightness of my being, perfect goddess and capricious sorceress – as if the nights I have with you could be corralled and organised into some ridiculous and anachronistic time-frame … shame on you, Molly Hooper, and shame on tradition."

Lovely.

A moment passes.

"Still time to bottle it, Sherlock."

"Bottle what? Endorphins? Oxytocin? Lemonade?"

"Chicken out. Decide against it; change your mind."

"Oh. No, I don't think I shall. You?"

"No, I think I`m going to see it through."

"Good."

"Fine."

Another moment or two passes, punctuated quite gracefully by billowing curtains, lifting in the slight summer`s breeze.

"I have some coagulated adder venom down in Skylab, Molly – "

"Oh God, Sherlock – say that again!"

"I think you heard me."

"Wanna centrifuge it into next week?"

"Your assistance would be sublime."

"Come on then, _the Only One in the World_, let`s do some science for an hour or two."

And so they did.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: If you are British, you may remember the 1970`s quiz show as `Mr & Mrs` - cheese-fest extraordinaire!**

**`The Beer Hunter` game is based on the film `The Deer Hunter` (though slightly less dangerous) - the player turns his back whilst someone else shakes up one can/bottle of beer and places it back with the others. The player than has to choose a can/bottle and open it next to his head - the result, I will leave to your deductions ...**

**PS We have not seen the last of Mrs Hudson`s dancing ...**


	18. Preparations

"John, what the hell - ?"

"Look at the camera, Mary – I`m testing the zoom …"

"John, I`m bloody well seven months pregnant – I am possibly the last person on earth you will need a zoom for."

Even though it is barely 6 am on Saturday 21st June, sun is streaming through the windows of their Kentish Town flat. John manouvres around several large cardboard packing boxes, since a new job and new baby has pushed the Watson`s inevitably towards a new domicile. _Moving Day_ was imminent, but _Wedding Day_ was sooner.

Today, in fact.

"Are you going to be behind that thing all day, Johnny-boy? Not so keen on lugging a giant baby belly and a _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_ six year old around all day in this heat – have you seen the hand wash?"

"Try the body wash – don't worry, Tubs. Greg has promised to lend a hand with the filming. I promised to let Sholto have a little go, as a – "

"Treat?"

"Bribe."

"Fair enough."

Mary turns around to him, lit by the fluorescent light in the tiny bathroom, rollers in her bright blonde hair and only one eye made up – she looked beautiful.

"This day – seriously John – which of us could have ever predicted _this day_? It is a miraculous turn of events. Over the last five years, I`ve kinda held my breath around those two. Just couldn't really quite believe it was happening; then it was _continuing_; then it was _still going_; then Viola, and now … "

"I get it, Morstan, I do. I thought this bubble was due to burst when either he got bored, or she got fed up of his - _Sherlockness_, but nah – it just runs and runs, like Coronation Street – "

"The Mousetrap."

"The Spiderman franchise."

They smile at each other, and John lowers the camera, thoughtfully.

"Truthfully, I couldn't tell you how, just that it does. It works. Sherlock Holmes is in a healthy relationship with another human being."

"Yeah, sweet-cheeks," she gently pulls his left cheek, smiling. "That`ll be just the _twice_, then. More than many ever manage."

"Yeah, there must be _something_ about Sherlock Holmes."

**X**

6.30 a.m.

Baker Street.

Molly Jane Hooper lies, immobile beneath the surface of the water which is brimming to the edge of her bath. So full is the tub that little waves, with a velocity all of their own, occasionally splash over its curved white edges and on to the already sodden bathmat beneath. No steam rises from the water, since it is by now, tepid, and so clear that her wide open eyes could be seen from above (would anyone be in there with her – which they weren`t). She is pale beneath the water and her hair spreads around her head in an auburn corolla, like Ophelia (_O, what a falling off was there_) amongst the weeds of the river bank. A tiny bubble has formed, bold and solitary, at the corner of her pale mouth – slowly, it gathers itself and launches, brave like a space traveller, to find the surface of a brave new world.

Then Molly Jane Hooper blinks her eyes and sits up abruptly, gasping for air. She smoothes back rivulets running from her hair, squeezing out the tepid water. No fancy bath oils or bubbles for Molly Hooper on her wedding morning (_no-one had obviously been shopping_) and H20 was doing a grand enough job on its own. Molly took another deep breath and blinked water droplets from her lashes. The early morning sunlight from the window was already strong enough to form tiny rainbows in them – oh, how lovely to have rainbows in your eyes on your wedding day; quite the best day to have them, in fact. So much bubbled up inside Molly Hooper that morning, in her bathroom, all alone, that she felt a little light headed. Citric acid mixed with baking powder? A seven percent solution of hydrochloric acid dropped on a calcite rock? Baking soda and vinegar? Sherlock had done those tests with Benedict last year ("it`s fizzy mummy, like bubble bath").

Yes, that was it – Molly Hooper was getting married, and she felt very fizzy indeed.

**X**

"_Ok, ok, the red light means it`s recording – go!"_

"_Oh – oh, right … erm – ha! A message for Molly and Sherlock – yes … mmm – "_

"_In your own time, Mike."_

"_Hah! Yes, of course, well, Molly, you are my most accomplished, hard-working and sensible pathologist. I – er – trust you with everything and you could quite easily run the place yourself. You are a published author and accomplished researcher, a wonderful mother and a – a really good friend… Sherlock, you are – very lucky to have won such a heart … sorry, sorry John, I have gone on – was that …?"_

"_It was perfect, Mike, just perfect."_

**X**

6.55 am

Baker Street.

Rooftop.

Sherlock scrunches up his eyes against the brightening sun. Unusually, the weather forecast had proved accurate and the promised 24.5 degrees looked an actual possibility. Sherlock ledged his foot up against the ridge tiles atop Baker Street and leant back against the flashing surrounding the chimney. It was holding up quite well for a Georgian roof, but he wasn't going to take any unnecessary risks on his wedding day (_O what a falling off was there_). Ignorant types had offered their flaccid congratulations and platitudes, alongside the phrase _"it`ll be a step into the unknown – a bit of a risk, getting married these days …_ " How utterly ridiculous. Almost everything Sherlock did was a risk – it was his _livelihood_ to risk – except marrying Molly Hooper. That was no risk – that was inevitable, inexorable, and ineluctable.

He places his violin (second best – not the Strad – he liked risks but he wasn't _insane_) beneath his chin and tests the new bow. Hmmm – the A string was a touch out of pitch – Sherlock lifted his elbow in line with his shoulder, without concern for his precarious perch. The _Mezzoforte_ sounded beautiful – light and airy (just imagine how it would sound on the Stradivarius!) _Trills, Slurs, Stocatto_ – lovely, lovely! How pleased he was that it had arrived in time – he had such an exquisite piece prepared for Molly –

A sudden vibration emits from his pocket which had nothing to do with his new bow. He had brought his phone – that kind of sensible, grown up behaviour proved to Sherlock that he was more than ready to get married.

_`Get down from the roof immediately. I sincerely hope that is NOT the Stradivarius.`_

Sherlock smiles as he executes a swift _Spicatto_. A camera hidden on the chimney of Baker Street? How very thorough – he really must congratulate Mycroft when he climbed down.

**X**

" – _and the red light is blinking – "_

"_Do go first, Mr Wiggins – "_

"_Nuffin` doin` Mrs `olmes – ladies always first with me."_

"_Thank you, always quite the gentleman – hello Sherlock, darling. Your father and I would just like to say how utterly blessed we are today – "_

"_Punch drunk, Sherlock!"_

"_Well, a little bit actually drunk, to be honest – your brother does have such excellent taste in wines, and daddy does like his Piper… Sherlock, we could not be happier that you and our exquisite little Molly are married. We adore her – she is a beautiful, strong girl and I knew instantly we met that you would not be able to resist her – "_

"_Like your mother and myself!"_

"_Thank you Vernet, darling {whispers} utterly squiffy – he isn`t used to it – so, just to say, many, many congratulations and a million thank yous to the both of you for giving us the most perfect grand-children we never dared hope for. We love you Sherlock, and I am happier today than I have ever been – I think I may even explode with joy when Seiga is married next month – you will all have to bring little brushes to sweep me from the pavement …"_

"_Glad tidings, Mr and Mrs Sherlock `olmes – from me an` all of the Homeless Network! We`ll keep an eye on stuff when you`re away. A big fanks from Trig, in particular, regarding the bike …"_

"_Thank you Wiggins – Miriam, Vernet – "_

"_Was it ok?"_

"_Exceptional."_

**X**

**8.48 am**

**Baker Street**

**Mrs Hudson`s Kitchen**

She stands on her tippiest of toes and reaches up to his neck –

"Look at you, Sherlock – wearing a tie – I never thought I`d see the day."

He lifts his chin higher so she can execute the knot he could do perfectly well himself, only Molly had suggested Sherlock`s landlady should do the honours this day.

"Hmm."

Words were superfluous, so he didn't engage any.

"You and – _ties_ … not two things I`d put together. All those years, Sherlock, all those un-used tie-pins in your drawer …"

Martha Hudson`s fingers tremble a little; it was, perhaps, going to be one of _those days_.

"… all those Christmas`s and birthdays when I could have bought you one … _such lovely suits_, I said to Mrs Turner, and yet, not quite – _complete_. He needs something else to set it all off."

She`s done, and lowers her hands, holding the sides of his arms and stepping back to admire. Black suit (_Spencer Hart, naturally_) and pale grey silk tie, with small dots – lovely.

"There`s something else you need – "

"No flower, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, Sherlock, I made it sp – "

"No. Flower. Be content I am wearing a tie … are you crying? Is this because of the flower?"

She dabs her eyes and sits down suddenly at the kitchen table. Sherlock observes.

_Sister successfully recovered from hernia operation; boiler fixed yesterday; acid burns on stair carpet repaired; new dress appears appropriate; hair passable; he`d allowed superfluous tie-adjustments – no relevant data to explain current emotional condition._

Sherlock sits opposite.

"Are you in pain?"

"Oh, no, Sherlock! I`m fine, fine. Really. Just being silly."

"Is it the snake`s heads in the kitchen bin? The lab bin was full."

"Wha - ? Oh, goodness, no – no – these are happy tears, Sherlock."

"Oxymoron."

"No need to be rude, dear – I just – I`m so happy for you, that`s all. I did worry…"

Sherlock smiles – he has it.

"You worried about me. All those years – without _a tie_ or a _tie-pin_? You thought I was a little – untethered?"

She looks into his Icelandic, indescribable eyes and notes – _his_ _understanding_.

"Hmm – yes, Sherlock. John was the start, but I think you are almost complete – _the whole outfit_. I can worry a little bit less about you now."

And she is utterly startled when two, expensively tailored arms reach around her and pull her out of her chair into an unsolicited and unprecedented hug (emergencies only, usually).

"Thank you," murmurs Sherlock Holmes, close to her ear, "for everything."

It was only moments after he had gone (Mycroft was on the stairs) that she realised - those weren`t little spots on his tie –

They were _skulls._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hmm - where did Sherlock get his wedding tie, I wonder?**

**Guest: Thank you for the lovely review - I also adore the idea of daddy Holmes being a top-notch poker player!**

**Anna: ha ha! Yes, I have given Molly a fair few attributes, just to make up for Sherlock`s horribleness at the beginning of their acquaintance (re: Christmas gift-gate) - he had to see what he was missing out on! PS what is a Mary Jane? :)**


	19. One ring to bring them all

_A camera wobbles and the picture is unfocused – in an out, then in again – into the smiling faces of Gregory Lestrade and Seiga Harbargera. Greg is clearly holding the camera towards them from the length of his arm (long arm of the law?) and it`s wavering trajectory hints quite strongly towards a champagne fuelled afternoon. Weddings, eh? Inexplicably, both of them have wet hair and a smudge of whitish/purplish foam (?) is visible on Seiga`s fringe._

"_Hej! Hi there Sherlock and Molly!"_

"_Hej, mina älsklingar - vi älskar dig så mycket!"_

"_Yeah – what she said! Just a message for you both, to keep for post – posteri – for ever! Sherlock – "_

"_Sherlock! Molly, hej!"_

"_You have succeeded in being the biggest tosser possible over the many years I have known you. Rude, arrogant, superscili – yeah, all that. I could make a list of adjectives to describe you, Sherlock (Sally has one somewhere), and you`ve been, at some point, all of `em. Gotta say though, you mad bastard, that some of the words of that list aren`t too bad. I know you have a bloody massive heart in there somewhere, otherwise that Angel wouldn`t have married you – "_

"_We love you, Molly!"_

"_Yeah, we do. You have saved so many lives, Sherlock. If being a tosser is what it takes, then you can be one for the rest of your life. You`ve helped us so much over the years, and people are, at last, starting to recognise that fact. You are unique, and we actually do quite love you too."_

_(Swimming camera work where Seiga grabs it, pushing it towards herself)_

"_Hej, littlest brother – so happy for you both. Molly – we will always have Uppsala – and St. Bart`s! We are dreadfully drunk, but we have a little song for you – "_

_{Camera pulled back by Greg}_

"_The department sing this Sherlock, after you`ve gone, usually – thought you might want to hear it, at long last:_

_(to the tune of `Home Sweet Home`)_

_Mid crime scenes and murderers, we may often roam,_

_Though he`s seldom so humble,_

_There`s no police like Holmes!"_

_{fall about laughing}_

**X**

**10.49 am**

**Baker Street**

**Skylab**

"John Watson, why are you here?"

"Ah, let me see – ah, what was it now? `_if I were to choose the best man I know, I would choose you, John Watson_.`"

"Who on earth said that?"

"That would be YOU, two months ago."

"Ah, yes."

"So, that`s why I`m here – come to do my Best."

Both men stand opposite each other, with a granite workbench and an expensive microscope between them. Sherlock quirks a tiny smile at his bestest of men and nods towards the door.

"Shall we go, then? Into battle."

John nods, pressing his lips together in a firm line. He could say a few words, but doesn't quite trust himself, and besides, gotta save something for the speech …

**11.14 am**

**Marylebone Gardens**

**London**

A midsummer day`s dream has been arranged, as if by wood nymphs and faeries, in Marylebone Gardens. A towering pale pink peony bower has been built in front of the Benedictine Fountain, the warmth of the day already bringing out its sweet honeyed scents and the lazily droning bees that were availing themselves of them. Rows of spindly white and gold chairs are arranged artfully (but not over-plentifully) in rows, with a small walkway through their midst.

"That is what we professionals call `the aisle`, Sherlock."

"Noted, John."

Helen Stoner and the other three members of the _Horseguard`s String Quartet_ wave across at them from beneath a shady chestnut tree. They had offered their services _gratis,_ in exchange for the settling of the Woodyard Kipling`s Tea shop business.

"Why is she holding up a violin case?"

"That is _my_ violin case – she is safeguarding it for me."

"Ohhhh – you`re playing a new piece for Molly, aren`t you?"

"Excellent deduction. I see my choice of Best Man was more than fortuitous."

A pause.

"I think it`s rather lovely."

"Hmm."

A small, white tent (more of a yurt than a marquee, in fact) had been erected adjacent to the bower and the walkway, and several bar staff were disreetly unpacking expensive looking glassware and even more expensive bottles of champagne.

"Mycroft." Is the only comment Sherlock offers.

"I think I recognise that one from the Diogenes Club."

"One of the few not trading state secrets in exchange for dirty cash – why, John, are there so many chairs? Molly has no living parents and I have very few friends."

"You might be surprised how they add up. People wanted to come who barely knew you – just for the spectacle – bit like spotting a rare osprey, or that flowering desert thing in Chile that happens once every ten years or something – "

"Are you likening my wedding to a rare bird or natural phenomena?"

"Most of us are, actually, Sherlock."

Sherlock gazes around the scene and contemplates momentarily.

"How did this even happen? All this – _spectacle_. So few people are actually needed - Molly and myself, you and Mary, the children. Oh, and Mrs Hudson if she promises not to cry. Mycroft if he promises not to speak…"

"Mary, Mrs Hudson, your mother – the _Triple M_ conspiracy. They take an idea and run with it. This place must have significance for you - ?"

"I did have an epiphany, of sorts, here, in front of this fountain, regarding Molly Hooper."

"There you go then – they took that and they made it into – _this_. Accept and enjoy Sherlock – it's the only way now."

People are arriving, and waving, and being handed glasses of champagne by non-criminal Diogenes bar staff. Sherlock sighs.

"Most perplexing, John."

"I`ll get you a glass of champagne."

**X**

"_Aaand – action!"_

_{Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson huddle together under an umbrella. It appears to be raining, but sunshine and a cloudless sky are clearly seen in the background. Camera pans out slightly to show they are next to a fountain. Correction – they are standing in the fountain}_

"_Hello, hello! Sherlock and Molly … Well, I stand here (keep steady, Philip!) and have to eat my words, since I`ve just seen it with my own eyes. You are married. Sheessh …"_

"_Hey – I always knew you two would end up together; always hoped you`d come back from your – time away – and see what was right in front of you. Hey, Benedict! Hope you`ve got some popcorn for Friday – How to Train Your Dragon 4 – my treat!"_

"_Hey, well, I guess you have been OK in recent years, Sherlock, and I probably don't need to warn Molly to watch her back, like I did with John… yeah, anyway – congratulations, blah, blah, blah – and I need to see you after your honeymoon, about a little cold case that`s just come up – "_

"_Sally – "_

"_Let`s just get out of this bloody fountain – was this your idea - ?"_

"_I thought it would look quirky – romantic …"_

"_Not as romantic as an engagement ring, Philip."_

"_Cut!"_

**X**

"Do you, Sherlock, take Molly to be your lawful, wedded wife, foresaking all others – "

"Naturally."

_(whispers)_ "The response is usually `I do`."

"I don`t do _ususal_."

Awkward pause. Best Man sighs.

"Do you, Molly, take Sherlock to be your lawful, wedded husband, foresaking all others, until death parts you?"

The brown-eyed girl dressed in a simple, silvery-white shift dress and a single, yellow rose in her hair, looks across at her almost lawful husband and she crinkles her nose and smiles that secret smile that nobody else really knows the meaning of.

"Ah, go on then," she says, and the registrar knows that is just how it`s going to be.

**X**

"May we please have the rings?"

John Watson nods, confident in this particular Best Man Duty. He retrieves a small box from his jacket pocket and opens it to pass the two white gold rings to Sherlock –

_Oh – Christ!_ _Oh bloody, sodding_ – He looks down, disbelievingly, into the box. As if sensing his hesitation, Sherlock turns and stares down. Molly sees and claps a hand over her mouth.

John looks back around to the rows of spindly gold and white chairs to see the smiling, angelic expression on the face of his son.

_Sholto._

He should never have left the box unattended; sleeping with it under his pillow had been suggested by his wife, (who`s own face was beginning to register what was happening) and he`d waived away her concerns. He had severely underestimated the situation, and this is what had happened.

And so it came to pass that a smirking Molly and Sherlock Holmes undertook their very first joint task together – the pushing of two Haribo jelly rings onto each other`s fingers to symbolise their undying and eternal love.

It was highly unlikely such touching symbolism would last long, taking into consideration Sherlock`s love of Haribos.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The Marylebone Gardens are first mentioned in `The Science of Attraction` and is where Sherlock first realised he probably did love Molly Hooper, and should - maybe - say something!**

**Sherlock`s love of Haribos was first alluded to in `Sherlock Sleeps: Bedtime Stories`. He also hates liquorice and mint imperials.**


	20. More than words

"Does your daddy know you`ve got it?" Benedict Holmes affects a wide-eyed bushbaby stare.

"God, no, Ben – I nicked it from under his chair. Grown ups are so easy, `specially when they are at parties."

Ben is living in a terrifying, yet invigorating half world of fear and adrenalin (_addictive, he would one day decide_); wanting to avoid the disappointed glance of his mother and mortifying glare of his father fought hard with wanting to dive headlong into the thrilling, intoxicating, heart-hammering world of his slightly unbalanced best friend.

Hmm.

"Are you going to chicken out, Benny?" Sholto`s lip doesn`t quite curl, but a sneer is definitely in the post ...

"No chance!" The pounding of his little heart echoed hard in his ears.

"Let`s go and do some filming!"

**Scene A:**

A tall, well-attired middle aged gentleman stands tall and noble in stature within the tent. Everyone else mills around him, but the camera has found and singled out his lonely status, next to a heavily laden table. He seems to check his surrounding (more than once), then affects to move, almost imperceptibly, towards the large, white chocolate and raspberry ganache. Several pieces have been readily cut for guests (Sherlock flat out refused to ceremoniously cut the cake - _`is everything reduced to some ridiculously ritualistic procedure? Are we Freemasons?`_) and this particular guest is, it must be noted, no stranger to this table of delights. The focus pulls in as he takes the first forkfull, and his face adopts the most beautific expression ever to have been publically witnessed upon the face of Mycroft Holmes. Later debate would conclude that, not even during childhood, had his mother seen such unfettered joy pass across her son`s visage.

**Scene B:**

Out, beneath the spreading chesnut tree, the Horseguard`s String Quartet (possibly fuelled by sun and Premier Cru) have dragged their Handel and Mozart into a much jazzier musical epoch, and are playing classical versions of 1950`s rock and roll. The _secret cameraboys_ have managed to capture many a hapless and well lubricated passer-by, inspired by the up-tempo tunes into audacious, impromptu dance displays. Two such guests can now be seen, `_Rocking around the clock_`; limbs flailing, tie/petticoats twirling and even an ill-advised _lift and swing_. The exotic dancing backstory of Martha Hudson is clearly out-classing the slight `dad-dancing` techniques of Gregory Lestrade. The enthusiasm of both parties is undeniable and unstoppable.

**Scene C:**

Two brothers are filmed walking towards each other, through a small, waist-high maze. Such are the devious skills of the _secret cameraboys_ that privet hedge does not impede their ability to capture the younger of the two brothers (who is carrying an eight month old baby girl dressed as a honey bee) stop, nod and exchange a few words with his elder brother, who engages with said _bee-baby_ and fails to see his pocket being discreetly, yet devastatingly picked. The brothers smile, nod again and go about their business. The camera sees all.

**X**

**1.34 pm**

**Marylebone Gardens**

**London**

Two small, camera-less boys race through the gently undulating groups of guests yelling a particular word, over and over again, at the tops of their shrill, piping voices:

"_Speeches! Speeches! Speeches! Speeches!"_

Beats the discreet chink of cutlery on glass.

The sun continues to bleach down and the cool shade of the tent welcomes all guests and their champagne flutes, ready to listen and toast the happiest of happy couples. No formal top table, just chairs, tiny drinks tables and bar stools inhabit the tent. For guests numbering fewer than forty, this was more than adequate. Mycroft`s Diogenes crew had placed a few potted palms and discreet electric fans within the bleached calico walls of the tent and, miraculously, a mini-grand piano had materialised in the corner.

John H Watson stands, smiling and confident, in his best dark blue suit and rose pink tie. He has recovered from _Haribo-gate_, but would quite like to claw back his superior _best man_ reputation before the day was done. Once the last guest has been seated, he scans their faces, then looks over at Sherlock and Molly, and smiles. Sherlock holds Viola on his knee and supports his wife against his shoulder, as she leans in. He betrays absolutely no shred of emotion and John is one of the few people in the room who know this to be a smokescreen. Sherlock is a little nervous. Molly knows this too, for she can feel his beating heart.

"I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing. I may have begun my time as his flat-mate only noticing when the bin was full or the fridge was empty, but that was not true for very long. Sureptitiously, inevitably, almost insidiously, his ways and his methods began to infilitrate – to creep inside my own (vastly inferior, he would remind me) brain and alert me – alert me to tiny little things which are often seen, but not so often observed.

And so, dear guests, I began to notice.

From the very beginning, Sherlock has said to me `_I cannot live without brainwork – what else is there to live for?`_ Yeah, massively pretentious, but that`s the Sherlock we know and love. Thing is, he genuinely believes this to be true; his ideas, his science of observation and deduction, his solving of the unsolvable, his application of logic – all this sustained Sherlock for many many years. He didn`t need to eat, or sleep, or live as other people, because he had his `brainwork`. Nothing would make him happier than happening upon the solution to the puzzle – the happiest I would ever see him, and rightfully so – who needs anything or anyone else? See, everyone? Sherlock would have us all believe he was immune to the idiocy of love and friendship. Wow, that was _some_ grit on _some_ lens, and he needed the clearest view in all of London –

Didn`t he?

But, recent events in particular (and, honestly, our entire time as friends) have shown me that this is just a pile of – rubbish (gotta be child-friendly here, folks). It might take him a little bit longer to access his inner heart, but when he does, it`s a wonderful thing. Sorry about this, Sherlock, but I am determined to out-do your speech, even if I can`t muster up a murderous photographer. He will remember (because he bloody well remembers everything) saying that `_I never make exceptions – an exception disproves the rule_`, but for Dr. Molly Jane Hooper, he has tossed aside that rule book and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it. I witnessed it, over five years ago – the excuses to go to the Morgue; the kisses and apologies when he was a tosser (sorry, kids); the strange comings and goings which didn`t include me and my revolver; his devastating loss, which only very few special people knew the truth about; many, unexplained visits to Sweden, where Dr Hooper was on secondment, and the very curious incident of the dog in the quiet time ... so many clues, and I eventually noticed the sum of their parts.

Readers of my blog will know something of the journey of Sherlock and Molly. Their relationship is unique, unorthodox to some and completely unquantifiable. Even they don`t know how or why it works. It just does, folks. The truth is, sometimes, perfection just happens. She is Ying, he is Yang, or whatever the hell that means, but they do fit. When Sherlock is with Molly, he is a whole – he will always be _brainwork_, he will always be _logic_, he will always be a _self-important git_ who often wonders why he is always so much better than everyone else – but, something else he knows is true – loving Molly will ensure he always wants to be better for her, and their children, and you know what? He bloody well will be.

A toast – to Sherlock and Molly – happiness is only real when it is shared. Cheers."

**X**

"Thank you John. Your speech was as overblown, hyperbolic, sentimental and every bit as indulgent as I could have predicted, which does not mean to say that I do not value every word.

As ridiculous as I am, I agree that I have changed since the day we became flat-mates. Without John Watson and his grandiose flourishes, shameful demands and requirements for the everyday mundanities of life, and shockingly inconvenient moral compass, I would be devolved, stunted – a retarded ghost of a creature who could not deduce a person, because he did not understand the nature of that person`s heart. In short, I find I have John Watson to thank for giving me the codes to unlocking the inner workings of my heart, and without him, I would never have found the wherewithall to love my Molly Hooper.

Molly – she saw me as I was, and she saw me in full. No false god, put high upon a pedestal and revered without question (however much I would have loved that); Molly Hooper saw me and loved me anyway – a human offering that bordered on the miraculous, and every time I see her, I tremble and quail at the thought of what I could have lost, had she not. John Watson wonders how Molly and myself `fit`, and function, but I only wonder how, all those years, I could possibly have functioned without her. It is bewildering and incalcuable to me, and I never wish to dwell upon the very idea. Truthfully, I do believe Molly to be an enchantress of the highest order. When one is truly enthralled, one does not question that thrall as being anything but the norm, nor wishes to escape its clutches.

Molly, you asked me once, years ago, about the planets of our solar system, of our place within the universe, and I said that it was useless, for it was not a universe that interested me. Then, one day, I saw the universe in your eyes, and I wanted, I felt, I understood – and I am a better man because of that.

John Watson, Molly Hooper, thank you. Everyone else, charmed you could attend, but isn`t it time you were all going home?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: thank you for the lovely reviews - it is they (and my love of the Sherlolly) that keep me going!**


	21. Strings and Fountains: A Study in Water

And so it happened that Paul, string quartet cellist (and secret fan of Thrash Metal in his spare time) could also play a very passable pianoforte, and was thus commandeered to accompany Sherlock`s violin piece, especially composed for his new bride:

_`Siren`s Song – by Sherlock Holmes` watch?v=WjLJN4XFoWE&feature=player_embedded (You tube)_

The new bow embraced the Stradivarius with the joy of a long-lost lover, provoking notes as pure and clear as spring rain. Slowly, the lush smoothness of the theme builds with a sublime, pulsing emotion – a lover stood barefoot upon the rocks, waves breaking and retreating about their feet; the ebb and flow of the wave, leaving behind a ghost with its foam. A slight change of pace – an exquisite, sarcastic energy, a surge of pure joy and excitement – the lover seen from the rocks; adored and compelled to approach. Then – mesmeric, hypnotic – a thrall and drawing in ... the strings quiver beneath his touch and resonate with a sensuality that thrums with anticipation. Sherlock`s beautiful, beautiful violin then shows the rawest of edges – the primal need and desire – which undercuts the brightness of its higher reaches ... two now, standing barefoot, boiling ocean swirling around them, but they are lost ... they are enthralled. No huge jumps, arpeggios or virtuouso pyrotechnics, just a soft and lilting fluidity, bringing it home into silence.

Sherlock sees nothing but the music, the story, the texture, for the entire time he plays, and only comes back to himself when a tidal wave of rapturous clapping breaks through. People are standing; people are weeping! He looks around, almost in a daze for Molly, and she is there.

She will always be there.

He draws her to him, still holding the bow and violin.

"I heard snippets – around the flat – for ages." She looks up at him and he can see her eyes are glittering with unshed tears.

"How long have you been composing this? It is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard, Sherlock. I mean it."

"Oh, just a little while on paper. In my head, I`ve been composing this since the day I realised – since you were – "

Molly Hooper (or, more recently, Holmes) puts her small arms around her new husband and presses her head into his chest. She is smiling.

We are all here to love, she is thinking – we are all here to risk our hearts.

**X**

The late afternoon sun has forfeited some of its power to the clutches of an encroaching night, but in the Marylebone Gardens of Old London Town, the music plays on (although in more digital form now the Quartet have hung up their bows), the champagne still fizzes and dancers still dance whilst walkers and talkers still – do just that, really.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes lie across the grass, propped up on several cushions. John sips a `very fine` VSOP whilst Sherlock has, from somewhere, acquired an ice cream.

"Harry`s got a job – counselling at the walk-in centre. Starts next week ... but, oh of course, you already know, don`t you?"

Sherlock lifts up the ice cream and the sinking sun catches his white gold ring (Sholto gave it up in the end) as if he`d captured a stray sunbeam.

"I can`t imagine what you mean, John. Have you tried the pear and stilton flavour from the liquid nitrogen ice cream bar? It is truly detestable."

"Er ... yeah, you can (and, no!)." John takes another sip and steals another glance at his newly-married friend. The whole concept - still amazing. Still eye-poppingly crazy.

"Anyway, thanks Sherlock, for all that – stuff. I never really said it."

"You say it everytime you look at me, John. I can see it all over your face. You can stop now. I would do it again, in a second, whatever the price that needed paying."

And, despite the warmth of the evening, something about his words effect a strange, latent chill within the chest of John Watson. A price? How exactly had this chance for his sister been obtained? The barest bones of knowledge of Segia`s sacrifice had been explained, but – what if there was more? What if - ?"

"I need a gift from you, John. It is my wedding day, after all."

"The popcorn maker not enough, then?" He bites back his dis-ease with humour (as was his wont) and swirls the amber liquid about the base of his glass.

"The gift of acceptance – of the choices I have made regarding this. I cannot have your gratitude and concern colouring our friendship for another second. Promise me."

John sighs. "Sure, Sherlock. I accept."

Squeals and shrieks carry in the air from beyond the peony byre and the tent. Splashing is heard.

"Sounds like the Benedictine Fountain has been breached; it was always gonna happen."

Another shriek rents the air and both doctor and detective sit up, rather abruptly and look at each other. Rumblings and chatter is building and they`ve both been around long enough to sense a change of atmosphere, so suddenly they are standing, then they are striding ...

Sherlock and John then find that they are _running_ towards the fountain, because their senses are bright and alive, and forever tuned to the extra-ordinary.

They are pushing through the crowd that have gathered; surging and straining to see what was causing such a sudden kerfuffle. John is shoved aside by an over-eager onlooker, and momentarily loses sight of his friend ... then, he sees the lapis lazuli coloured shirt and sees Sherlock`s arm, pointing upwards towards the cascading waters of the fountains, crashing and splashing mere inches away ...

... which were bubbling bright purple against the fading sky.

Purple! Shit – the fountain water was PURPLE!

"John!"

Sherlock is shouting across, pushing past Anderson, who is looking distinctly damp already.

"Look at the ground!"

And as John Watson glances between the clamouring legs of the throng around the fountain, he sees it –

The foam, erupting, lava like, from the bowl of the fountain. The thundering water had churned up a veritable _Quatermass _of encroaching frothy, bubbly, purple mess, which was overflowing onto the grass and was being whipped up, like a giant portions of blueberry ice cream, by on-lookers, determined to make a party of it.

John`s soldier brain acts swiftly, reaching out for his friend, he pulls him away, narrowly missing a huge soapsud flying past his head. Both men retreat, quicker than a man who`d just removed an explosive lined jacket from his friend`s back, and race back up towards the tent, just as Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper are advancing. Sherlock sees Mary in his peripheral vision – she is less than happy, and then it all clicks into place.

"Molly, you couldn`t have a bubble bath this morning, could you?"

"We had no handwash at the flat," puffs Mary, staggering up towards them. "And look what I`ve just found, next to the cake table."

She holds out a hand, stained red and blue, and containing an empty bottle of cochineal red food colouring, as well as one of blue. Also very much empty.

"Oh God, the lab was out of handwash too – and Mrs Hudson couldn`t wash up last night until she`d been to Tesco`s."

And the collected group of adults watch in part horror, part admiration, as the Benedictine Fountain of Marylebone Gardens belches forth its purple, foamy waters across a more than happy throng of champagne fuelled wedding guests, who are tossing the foam around with the joyous and nostalgic abandon of a 1989 summer of love in Ibiza.

And strangely enough, the only two guests legitimately entitled to enjoy such a childish and ridiculous pastime are suddenly, nowhere to be seen ...

**X**


	22. Wedding Presence

**10.38pm**

**Marylebone Gardens**

**London**

_All my little plans and schemes  
>Lost like some forgotten dream<br>Seems like all I really was doing  
>Was waiting for you…`<em>

John and Mary Watson stand as close as is possible and sway, eyes closed in either ecstasy or exhaustion to `_Real Love_` by Tom Odell – a little indie angst crossed with sweeping 1920`s orchestral strings. They have purplish foam in their hair, bare feet and a slightly unpredictable six year old fugitive from the law, but are relaxing into the closing minutes of Sherlock`s wedding.

It has truly been a blast.

_`Just like little girls and boys  
>Playing with their little toys<br>Seems like all they really were doing  
>Was waiting for love…`<em>

As the fire left the sun, the energy has gradually depleted from the day, and the guests that remain lie or sit across thoughtfully placed cushions and settles whilst Diogenes bar staff pass round warming beverages of coffee, tea and cocoa (with little marshmallows). Huge candelabras cast a soft, flickering glow in an around the tent and across the features of Molly Hooper as she takes in the tremendously acceptable sight of her new husband as they both recline.

"Sultan," she comments, idly.

"Concubine," retorts Sherlock, curling a fallen lock of her auburn hair around his long, pale finger. The candlelight really does bring out its Titian tones, he decides.

"Illogical." Pronounces Molly Hooper (Holmes), for she loves to tease.

"How so, o practitioner of dark arts and love spells?"

Molly rolls onto her stomach, looking up at him.

"The wife of the Sultan would be called the _Sultana_ – I am no mere concubine, my lord of the harem – I am your _chosen bride_."

"And also, my very favourite dried fruit (after cranberries)," replies Sherlock Holmes, completely straight-faced, and she can do nought but laugh at him, and his undefinable uniqueness.

They lie and continue to observe the Watsons undulating effortlessly around the dance floor.

_`Don't need to be alone  
>Don't need to be alone<br>It's real love  
>It's real,<br>It's real love  
>It's real .. love.`<em>

"I have a gift for you, Molly, besides my own self, that is."

"Oh my goodness – is it a cat?! A ginger one, with long fur? A Norwegian Forest cat, perhaps?"

"Not remotely does my gift resemble a hirsute feline of Scandinavian descent, Molly Hooper."

A simple _no_, it seemed, was not possible but she was _beyond_ excited.

"_Tell me, tell me, tell me!"_

Sherlock leans over onto his side and supports his head on one elbow. What he would find immensely irritating in most mortals, he finds irresistible in her. Witchcraft, pure and simple.

"I will tell you after I have deduced your gift for me."

"I knew it! You`ve hacked me again!"

"Molly, Molly, you know me better than that – and you know my methods. Shame on you. I have not used nefarious means to deduce your wedding gift to me – I have merely observed and deduced. You have visited this very park four times recently – I have noted the pollen from the Anne Boleyn Garden lilies across your calves and hem in several places. Viola has been sporting a frankly ridiculous number of bee-related outfits of late, and you have stopped Mrs Hudson swatting several flies, thinking they could possibly have been bees. Most damning of all, I noted your visits to the park all coincided with the opening hours of the Marylebone Apiary`s Society Meetings. I saw you type in a new name to your contacts too (accidentally, of course) – a Mr Trevor, who I happen to know, runs said Society and has written several interesting papers on rare bees, including the Ruderal and red-shanked carder bee. Enough? I do have more."

"God, I am to have no more secrets, am I? Never again will I be able to surprise you. Go on then, tell me what I am about to give you as a wedding present."

"You have sponsored for me, my sweet enchantress, several bee hives at the Marylebone Apiary. They hold the most hives in this part of London. Outstanding and lovely, since I will be able to come down here and visit my bees whenever I choose."

She smiles, for he isn`t quite furnished with everything.

"What do they call those things the bees live in – within the hives, I mean – like a deep tray to encourage the honeycombs?"

"Frames. They slide inside the hives – eight to ten in each, depending on the hive size."

"Yes, frames. Well, Sherlock, just so that we are clear – you are now the proud sponsor of more than a couple of frames of bees down here at the Park. You will be visiting the grand total of two hundred and twenty one frames of bees, housed in twenty five hives. What do you think?"

And after he has kissed her, Sherlock whispers, since the music is very slow and quiet, and he is a very private person:

"Two hundred and twenty one _BEES_. Oh dear Molly, I think you have overwhelmed my heart. I could die, right here, on my wedding day." And, as he kisses her again:

"And yes, you will always have secrets from me, since you are the smoke bomb in the hive, and make focus and secrecy so very tricky for me. I do, however, have one more secret – a gift for _you_. Do you remember, months ago, your head and heart had grown tired of the relentless traffic, pollutants and built up chaos of this capital of ours. I recall your eyes, quite vividly, far away in a daydream of leafy country lanes and peaceful birdsong."

_Oh God, she did remember that – just when you think he isn`t watching you …_

"So, I decided, very soon after that, to remedy the situation."

"And how did you do that?"

"Last week, I had coffee with Janine."

**X**

_La Pattiserie Valerie_ had barely changed in three years. Same glittering crystal chandelier, same pistachio walls, and same shining ebony baby grand piano in the corner, to cheer and encourage and seduce the cake buying customer into lingering for a longer stay (and more gateaux).

However, the same could not be said of Janine Mckenna; erstwhile PA to a deceased blackmailer and the woman engaged to Sherlock Holmes (however briefly) before Molly Hooper. Sherlock was coatless and wore sunglasses, but she spotted him (much to his chagrin) before he spotted her, such was the change in her appearance.

Janine was blonde.

Janine was tanned.

Janine was (very) pregnant.

And dressed in a billowing clothing device, which Sherlock decided would have been more at home worn by one the Bedouin tribe …

He approached her table as she waved frantically, her smile still dimpling in the same way and her brown eyes sparkling.

"Sherl!"

"Excellent Tob`ob, Janine."

"Er … why, thank you! Only thing that fits me now, with me being up the pole and all that. Hah! Here`s me, telling _you_, Sherlock Holmes, with all your deduction and all that dry shite! Come here and hug me, then!"

And Sherlock has no choice but to be bundled up into her arms and pulled in against her voluminous kaftan and swollen belly. Janine smells of Rive Gauche, marron glace and the merest hint of petrol. Her right forefinger is smudged with something, as is her left ankle.

"Ah, you`re as stiff as a plank, just as usual! Sit down anyways; it couldn't be more grand to see you – still beautiful, Sherl!" And she laughs, without offense or rancour. With Janine Mckenna, what you saw was what you got (most of the time).

She pours the tea, pushing a heavy strand of blonde hair behind one ear with her left hand. Sherlock sees.

"You`re married."

"Why, of course I`m married, Sherlock Holmes! Would I be pushing out a snapper out of wedlock then? Oops – sorry! No judgements, Sherl, but my mammy is more of the traditional sort."

"She must have appreciated your kiss and tell tabloid tales beyond measure."

"Ha!" She laughs, good-naturedly. "Sure, my brothers had to work hard to keep her eyes away, but she only really takes the _Donegal Chronicle_ and the Parish News anyhow. Yeah, I got married; got a wee one on the way. Seamus (he`s my husband) – a fine lad. Small, blond, would trip over a log and not work out why it was there, but he banjaxed me with his horse`s hoof tales, and here I am, though what in heavens you`re supposed to do with a babby all day is a wee bit perplexing. I hope it likes the salon."

Janine flexes out her fingers, red nails showcasing the large emerald cut diamond (3 carats, approximately) and wedding ring while Sherlock sips his tea; the delicate china cup dwarfed in his long fingered hands.

"You`ve been abroad recently – several times in the past four months."

"Ah, you! Yes, Seamus has work near Marbella – such a chancer, Sherl – exactly the type I go for – but such good taste in Spanish villas. I`ll be too freakin fat to fly soon, though, more`s the pity."

"You`ve learnt to drive, and you hate it."

"Ah, Jaysus, Sherl – have a day off, why don`t ya? Deducing a girl when she`s in a delicate condition – it`s just not polite!"

"Smudges on your hand and ankle – you keep parking on the wrong side of the petrol pump – you forget where the tank is situated and have to pull the hose across the car. It smudged on your hand and your ankle. You are clearly un-used to driving the car, since you are not so familiar with its layout."

"Or, I might just have my husband fill my car for me."

"Do you? With such an independent person as yourself, I find this theory unlikely."

"Ah, shite, you`re right. As usual. Has that wee dote of a girl of yours kicked you to the kerb yet? You shouldn't be acting the maggot too much, Sherl – girls don`t stick around for that."

She grins at him across her tea cup without an ounce of malice; just the utter joy and confidence of a person who knew him quite well, and liked him anyway.

And, truth be told, he really did like her.

"Janine, you charmingly bring me to the reason I have asked to meet with you."

"So it wasn't to beg me for another chance then?"

Sherlock`s eyes gleam with a concealed joy that she suddenly notices and starts to understand –

"Janine, I`m getting married."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: to be continued ...**

**Janine`s glossary:**

**Up the pole - pregnant**

**Dry shite - boring stuff**

**Pushing out a snapper - having a baby**

**Banjaxed - swept me off my feet/confused**

**horse`s hoof tales - boasting/ big talk**

**acting the maggot - being silly/ridiculous**

**221Bees? SorryNotSorry :)**


	23. Alliance

Janine Mckenna.

Janine.

_Janine!_

"I did – er – say you should keep in touch – as friends. To make up for – all that Magnussen stuff … "

"Friends, Molly – friends?! A tiresome artifice which rarely benefits the participants to a level everyone requires – "

"Oh, Sherlock …"

"Although, I do concur, that without several people who now form a part of my own life, I would, annoyingly, be less happy."

"And she was – well?"

"Indecently glowing with rude health and impish Celtic charm. It is rather a good idea that she learnt to drive (however reluctantly) – there will be less chance of babies being accidentally left behind on buses in the Capital. Molly, I am most remiss in losing my thread – your wedding gift!"

"Please tell me we are not adopting Janine`s baby when it`s born!"

Sherlock blinked, and nodded, respectfully in acknowledgement of her joke. He then sat up abruptly and reached for his jacket, slung casually over a nearby gold and white chair. Delving into its inner pocket (_Spencer did hidden pockets so well)_ he retrieved an envelope which he handed to her.

"I could not begin to vie with the ultimate wedding gift of _two hundred and twenty one bees_, but consider this a remedy for your urban blight, my lovely siren."

_Why are my stupid hands shaking?_ Molly fumbles inadequately at the manilla envelope – it was as if her feet had been transplanted to her arms – and pulled out a multi-paged and stapled document that held a distinctly legal flavour to its appearance.

"Sherlock, if you have prepared a divorce petition, _just in case_ – " His effrontery was more than evident, so she desisted – " this looks official…"

And it _was_ official.

_RE: Jasmine Cottage, Lime Kiln Lane, Nr. Rye, E. Sussex_

"_I, the undersigned hereby declare the deeds and rights to the above property to be assigned to the party named as Molly Hooper (Holmes) hereafter. I therefore rescind my own rights to the above property and allocate full legal responsibility to Molly Hooper (Holmes)._

_Signed, Janine Imelda Moran (nee Mckenna)"_

Mrs Molly Jane Holmes looked up into the clear eyes of her new husband and once more recalibrated her comprehension of him.

"You have given me a cottage in Sussex? Janine`s cottage?"

"Yes. On the Sussex Downs. It is rather enchanting I am pleased to report; barely a leopard skin print or mirrored ceiling to be removed and the most beautiful views out towards the sea. It is an antidote Molly; your escape from the city, and all of its filthy underbelly. No pollution, no noise, no traffic … I would say `_no crime_`, but events two years ago involving the plasma thefts at Rye General Hospital render that term inaccurate … suffice to say, this cottage is for you; your haven to use as you wish."

The gift of fresh air and open spaces; wispy clouds passing overhead on breezy days and salty sea breezes carried along by them; country lanes and scented gardens; a quieter, more relaxed pace, away from dead bodies and overpopulation …

Molly looks at him again, searching his pale, beautifully planed face for answers, but he is silent and he is – _Sherlock._

"Would you like to come along too, Sherlock?"

And that saturnine gaze creases into life; into humanity.

"I thought you would never ask," he says.

**EPILOGUE**

How odd, mused Sherlock Holmes, to find himself back once more in a place he had vowed so vehemently to eschew, only a few months ago. His last visit, admittedly, had involved card tables, copious amounts of whisky and a very underhand kidnapping, but _this_ attendance promised a very different tone and outcome.

Mycroft had lost a little weight and a lot of sleep – both bad signs which served to sharpen Sherlock`s wits further.

"So pleased you could join me, Sherlock, do try and make yourself at least a little comfortable – although I am aware of your discomfiture regarding my place of work."

Sherlock sat, obediently, and contemplated his brother more closely.

"I imagine it was the pickpocketing of your phone that has elicited this invitation today, Mycroft?"

"Your involvement would have been necessary at a suitable point in time."

"But perhaps, not _this_ point in time?"

Mycroft finished clattering at his keyboard, pressed `send` before affording his younger brother his full attention.

"Perhaps not," he smiled, completely devoid of either warmth or sincerity.

"Considering the numerous distractions on your wedding day, Sherlock, I trust you did not have the time to fully hack into the encrypted email on my phone before giving it back?"

"I ascertained there was sufficient information to ensure a very large file taking up valuable space on there – so much to know about _our favourite scavenger bird."_

Mycroft sighs, as he is very tired and uncharacteristically, completely lacking in appetite.

"_Operation Magpie_ is underway, Sherlock; it has been underway for quite some time. Wheels have been set in motion, deals have been brokered – "

"This has always been your _endgame_, Mycroft – the final cog in the wheel of the Moriarty web being brought down. We have both failed to end the dealings of this man on so many past occasions, so why is _now_ the time that you lose the weight and develop insomnia?"

"Because, my dear brother, now we have _tenure_ – a purchase on this slippery and elusive creature."

Sherlock regards his elder brother again – how can such _Machievellian_ callosity be wrapped up in such an erudite and well shod package? Every time sentiment afforded him a hint of affection for his brother, he vowed to recall this moment, like a cautionary and metaphorical slap in the face.

"You would use our sister`s fragile and nebulous kinship with her father to gain an advantage? Oh, Mycroft, _there is something rotten in the state of Denmark._

"Ah, Sherlock, your lengthy association with the goldfish has resulted in quite an inconvenient morality. You appear to be under the impression I am proposing to use Seiga to infiltrate her father`s network without her knowledge – a `_stooge_` in my great game, as it were. You really could not be more wrong."

Sherlock hears the soft click of the door behind him and the muffled tread upon the ludicrous rug, and he knows, in a sudden rush and illicit thrill, how things will be.

"Fool me once," comes the soft Swedish list as her hand rests on his shoulder, "shame on you; fool me twice – he won`t fool me twice, Sherlock."

"You were never going to be the good daughter, building bridges and forging familial bonds, were you?" He faces his little sister; sees the blackest gloss of her hair and brightest blue of her eyes, suddenly remembering _who she is_ – her training, her intellect, her ancestry, her _danger._

"Jag var aldrig, Littlest bror - hur kunde jag? He had to believe it was so difficult for me to trade my kinship to save John. The truth is, Sherlock, he will _never_ be my father. To me, he is a blight, a plague to be wiped out, once and for all."

_How could I have forgotten who you really are?_ Wonders Sherlock Holmes. _Look at you – look at us all._

Mycroft`s soft voice cuts across his thoughts, eliciting a tiny start (_annoying)_:

"So, Sherlock, I must now ask you formally, since I am most aware of your own vested interest – we mean to bring down a criminal mastermind and destroy his empirical criminality from the inside out – are you with us?"

Sherlock feels the irrestistable surge of adrenalin and fear, blended with a distant shimmer of hunger for the chase, and he knows instantly what his answer will be. Bartholemew Moriarty will barely feel the chill of the East Wind before it wrenches everything he holds dear from his grasp.

"Oh, yes," he says.

**THE END**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well, after a fair few twists and turns, here we are - finished! Thank you to all who have read/reviewed/followed/favourite - in particular Icecat62, Rocking the Redhead and Arcoiris - lovely!**

**Of course, it must be said that, as one door closes, another opens - what is going to happen with that very bad Magpie, and will he realise his daughter`s true aspirations? Let`s just see ...**

**"Jag var aldrig, Littlest bror - hur kunde jag?" - I never was, littlest brother - how could I?**


End file.
